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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






























































































































































































































































































































































































































/ 








PAUL’S ANGEL 


BY 


/ 


Mrs. S. S. ROBBINS. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



BOSTON 

BRADLEY & WOODRUFF 
PUBLISHERS 


T7 n 
■K5bS 
fo^u 


Copyright, 1891. 
Bradley & Woodruff. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I. The Fire 5 

II. “ P. C. D.” 23 

III. The Arrest 43 

IV. The “County’s Free Tavern” . 61 

V. The Trial 80 

VI. Kum, Paul ! Kum ! 101 

VII. The Angel at the Door .... 123 

























PAUL’S ANGEL. 


i 


S the clock struck ten at night, a 



■*- boy, who had been waiting to hear 
it, crawled out from under a pile of brush 
where he had lain hidden, shouldered a 
large bag which was on the ground beside 
him, took up an old tin can filled with 
kerosene oil, and went stealthily toward 
Judge Tilton’s barn. 

The darkness covered him like a mantle, 
there was not a star in the sky, and away 
in the west the indistinct rattling of thun- 
der could be heard. 

The boy turned his head impatiently 
toward the part of the heavens from 
whence the sound came, then he mut- 
tered, “ Just cotch you at it,” and went 
straight on. He knew his way well ; he 


6 


Paul's Angel . 


had been over the path too often to miss 
an inch of it now, so he soon found him- 
self close to the barn. Here he put down 
his bundle and his can. Falling on his 
hands and knees, he crept along to the 
middle of the building ; there he stopped, 
took a bunch of matches out of his pocket, 
and, striking one, looked around. He 
could only see a few feet ; there was noth- 
ing near him. 

Inside the barn lie heard the pounding 
of a horse’s feet on the floor. The night 
was sultry, and the horse was uncomforta- 
ble in his stall. He went up to a window, 
outside of which he felt a long nose, and 
patted it; then the horse whinnied, and 
the sound touched the boy’s heart. He 
went into the barn cautiously, and cut the 
halter. Then he felt his way to the cows’ 
stalls, and moved their stanchions, exam- 
ined carefully to be sure their necks were 
loose, left the barn door open behind him, 
and went back to his bundle and his can. 

Evidently, preparations had been care- 


Paul's Angel. 


7 


fully made, for lie proceeded to build a 
cob-house out of small, dry bits- of wood 
and shavings, which he took from his bag. 

He built the train scientifically, leaving 
large air spaces between the chips, exam- 
ined it by the light of a match, poured 
over all the kerosene, then he took out 
from under the barn two loose stones. A 
large rat, seeing the light, sat up on its 
feet, and stared at him. 

There was something uncanny in its 
peaked nose and big, round eyes ; a less 
determined boy would have been fright- 
ened by it ; but this one put his hand res- 
olutely into the hole made by the removal 
of the stones and ascertained that every- 
thing was right there. Then, with a hand 
that shook — for the first time — so he 
could hardly hold the match, he touched 
the furthest end of the train, and saw 
a bright flame burst out. 

For a moment he stood and watched it. 
He had a bare foot, — but he did not think 
of that, — and it would crush it, there 


8 


Pau Vs Angel. 

would be no fire, and Judge Tilton’s hand- 
some barn, horse, cows, and all, would be 
there to-morrow morning. On this instant’s 
decision hung his whole future of weal or 
woe. Had that horse neighed again, or 
one of the cows given even a feeble low, 
his heart would have been touched even 
then, and the swift current that was bear- 
ing him on might have been turned heav- 
enward. Who can say? But this special 
providence is not a way in which God 
often helps us. 

There was a louder peal of thunder, and 
through the murky air a soft whiff of 
wind came circling round the small flame 
for a moment, then whirled it sidewise 
toward the barn. The boy watched it, 
saw it spread, turned his back on it, and 
stood very still. 

The breeze stiffened into the swift wind 
that so often precedes a shower. Now 
came soft crackling sounds as the fanned 
flame leaped over and under the train, 
right toward the barn, then under it. 


9 


Paul's Angel. 

Soon a small star of light looked out from 
between the stones of the underpinning, 
right in the boy’s face. The fire behind 
him was dying down, but the fire before 
him — what of that? From one of the 
windows there shone suddenly a bright 
light. Had some one in the judge’s house 
suspected, and come out with a lantern to 
catch him. He slunk back, hiding him- 
self behind a tall bush, but making a 
place among the branches through which 
he could look, and watch the barn. 

Out from another window shone the 
light, and the horse neighed loudly. 

Then the boy crept from under the bush, 
ran to the barn, and looked in. 

There was no doubt — the barn was on 
fire ! Just under the place where he had 
loosened the stones, he saw it streaming 
up toward the hay on the loft above. The 
horse heard him, whinnied now entreat- 
ingly, and the cows lowed. 

“ Get up ! ” called the boy, in a loud 
whisper. “ Click ! click ! ” with a stiff 


i o Paul ' s A ngeL 

tongue against his teeth; but the horse 
only began to stamp, and back away from 
the side of the barn where the open door 
was. 

In vain the boy entreated, commanded, 
forgetting his own danger in that of the 
horse, but yet not daring to venture in. 
The horse only stamped and neighed the 
louder, tossing his head and gazing with 
wild, brown eyes and puffing, dilated nos- 
trils toward the fire. 

Up toward the hay-mow it crept, — now 
one tiny flame. The boy saw, watched it, 
and in an instant the hay had caught. 

He thought only now of the poor ani- 
mals whose certain death was near, — to 
give the alarm, to have them rescued, that 
was all! 

Running to Judge Tilton’s house, he 
shouted under an open window, “ Fire ! 
fire ! fire ! ” then through the pitch-dark 
street, the thunder chasing him, shouting 
still, “ Fire ! fire ! fire ! ” until he reached 
the little white church under the hill, the 


Paul's Angel. n 

door of which was never fastened, the rope 
that would ring the alarm close at hand, 
and the boy used to ringing it for the 
quiet Sunday service. 

He groped his way to it, but his hands, 
shook so he could not pull it. At last a 
feeble, answering note ; then a louder one, 
then many in quick succession, until all 
the little town of Carlton awoke at the 
unusual sound. 

Judge Tilton had heard amid his dreams 
the boy’s cry of “ Fire ! ” but did not open 
his eyes for some minutes ; when he did, 
the light was streaming full into his room. 

The barn was but a little distance from 
his house ; he saw the flames darting out 
of the windows. By the time he had has- 
tily dressed, the church bell began to ring, 
and out from one house after another peo- 
ple were rushing, shouting, “ Fire ! ” 

It must have been twenty years since 
such an occurrence had taken place in 
Carlton, and the commotion it excited was 
as great as unusual. Men were half- 


Paul's Angel. 


1 2 

dressed. They came in shirt-sleeves, with- 
out vests, some even without hats, and 
barefooted. Women came with clothes 
huddled on, big blanket shawls put on 
cornerwise, sidewise, anywise, only so they 
hid deficiencies. Some with handkerchiefs 
tied over their heads, some with their best 
bonnets on. One carrying in her big 
checked apron her new china, another her 
sleeping baby; the minister’s wife, her 
husband’s half-finished sermon, the leaves 
of which flapped in the breeze, like a big 
white fan, as she hurried along. All the 
boys in town were up and out as soon as 
their fathers ; and the girls followed in 
frightened groups, clinging close together, 
as they gathered from the opening doors. 

The bell had stopped. No one ques- 
tioned then who had rung it. It was the 
fire only, the fire ! 

There was an old wheezy fire-engine in 
town. Not being needed, it had fallen out 
of repair ; but the men rushed for it now, 
pushed and pulled it with a will toward 


13 


Paul's Angel. 

the town pump, which, as good fortune 
would have it, had forborne this summer 
to run dry. 

While these preparations were making, 
Judge Tilton had gone to the barn, found 
the door open, the horse and cows loose, 
and, as the fire was mostly aloft, had vent- 
ured in to save them ; but the horse, with 
his feet planted firmly, refused to move, 
uttering frightful groans as his master 
tried to drag him out. 

People had now reached the barn with 
the creaking engine, and everything that 
could contain water had been taken out of 
Judge Tilton’s house. Wooden and tin 
pails, basins, dippers, crockery, glass, no 
matter upon what dish the kindly, fright- 
ened crowd could lay its hand, to the 
pump it went, and from there to the rol- 
licking flames. Head there was none. 
It seemed as if Carlton had suddenly 
taken leave of its senses, so wild its inhab- 
itants became. 

While the crowd were doing their best. 


14 


Pan Vs Angel. 


or rather their worst, to put out the fire, 
Judge Tilton remained in his barn, making 
vain efforts to save his horse. His name 
was shouted constantly, but he neither 
heard nor answered. Sparks were falling 
thick around him, and hot breaths from 
the advancing fire came into his face, but 
he did not flinch. No helpless thing had 
ever yet appealed to him in vain. 

All his efforts, however, seemed to be 
fruitless, and the danger to his own life 
imminent. He was just about to give up, 
when he heard a boy say, close to his 
side, — 

44 Swing me up on to him, I’ll ride him 
out.” 

The judge looked down on a tall boy 
with a pale face, made paler with the 
ghastly light. 

44 Up with you, then,” he said, and lifted 
him on to the horse’s quivering back. 

One instant the boy laid his face down 
on the horse’s neck, then put both arms 
around it, and clapped his feet lustily 
against his sides. 


Paul's Angel. 15 

“ Cover his eyes ! ” shouted a voice from 
amidst the excited crowd. 

In an instant over the dilated eyes went 
two brown hands. In the stillness outside 
that followed, a voice was heard, saying : — 

“ Get up there, Billy ! Good old Billy, 
get up ! ” 

One step forward from Bilty, then he 
reared and retreated, the boy clinging with 
arms and legs close to him. 

A sudden burst of flame from a pile of 
hay which lay behind the spot where boy 
and horse stood seemed for a moment to 
wrap them both in fire. A groan from 
some one who was looking in at the door 
was echoed by those behind, a tremor of 
excitement running through the crowd. 

“Spring off from him!” shouted the 
judge. “ Quick, boy, quick ! ” 

But the boy held fast, repeating the low 
words he had been speaking to the horse, 
urging him out still with elbows and legs, 
his hands held closely over the eyes. 

Suddenly Billy made a leap forward, 


1 6 Paul's Angel . 

then another, and another, until he had 
cleared the barn, and stood without a dry 
hair on him, so intense had been his terror, 
among the shouting crowd. 

44 Bravo ! bravo ! ” called men and boys, 
but the women drew long breaths, and 
said one to another : — 

44 Why, it’s only Paul Douglas, Widow 
Douglas’ boy. Who’d have thought it?” 

Paul slid off from the horse’s back. He 
heard the shouts, he saw men and women 
pressing closely up around him ; he knew 
strong hands had taken hold of the restive 
horse, and it was led away. And he heard 
a voice say : — 

44 Pretty well done for such a chap,” and 
some one answer, 44 He’s a brave one, I tell 
you. He’s the same fellow that saved Jim 
Strong from drowning.” 

44 Yes, by my sowl,” sang out an Irish- 
man’s shrill treble, 44 he’s afraid of nothing. 
He tells the truth, and shames the devil. 
A foine chap he. Three cheers for Paul 
Douglas ! ” 


17 


Paul's Angel. 

The cheers went up with a will, min- 
gling in mid air with the flame and the 
smoke that was now streaming high above 
their heads. 

The boy stood for a moment utterly con- 
founded by what he heard, then with head 
and body bent forward, without a word to 
any one, he pushed his way through the 
crowd, and was at once lost in the sur- 
rounding darkness. 

As soon as he had disappeared, the 
attention of all was once more directed 
toward the fire. The engine sent up a 
feeble stream, at which the roaring flames 
seemed to laugh, as in its very face they 
leaped from beam to beam. Now up 
among the rafters, now down in the closely 
packed grain-bins, knocking resolutely for 
an entrance that could not be denied, star- 
ing out of the glassless windows, throw- 
ing out long jets of flame now here, now 
there, as if the fiery billows were chasing 
one another under the tottering roof in 
mad glee. The men had done their best; 
and how impotent it had all been ! 


1 8 Paul's Angel. 

Suddenly there was a cry of terror, then 
an awful crash, then that silence which 
comes only in the possible presence of 
death. The roof had fallen in. Who, of 
all the brave men that but a moment ago 
were working there, was buried under- 
neath it? 

The first name shouted was that of 
Judge Tilton. There came an instant 
reply. Then that of the young minister, 
the leader where the peril was greatest, 
and from him an answer. 

“ If any one’s dead, let him answer,” 
sang out Pat McClure ; and, in spite of 
the excitement, a subdued laugh followed. 

It did instant good in restoring their 
self-possession. Who could have laughed, 
had any one been missing? 

By midnight all that was left of Judge 
Tilton’s handsome barn was heaps of 
smouldering ashes, with little points of 
flame here and there, and piles of scorched 
and blackened beams. The crowd began 
to disperse, the women going first, dragging 


Paul's Angel. 


*9 


rebellious girls and boys home with them, 
who would fain, tired and sleepy as they 
were, have waited “ to see the fun through.” 
Men, disappointed by their failure in put- 
ting out the fire, full of good resolutions 
about the purchase of a new fire-engine, 
and indignation over the old one, lingered 
to discuss what should be done until the 
gray light of morning began to show itself 
above the eastern horizon, when they, too, 
hurried home to catch what sleep they 
could before beginning the fresh labors of 
the coming day. 

Judge Tilton was left alone with his 
hired man to watch the remainder of the 
fire, and see that no farther harm was 
clone. He did more than this. Knowing 
how soon every trace of its origin would 
be lost in the quiet, but still sure progress 
of the fire, he betook himself at once to 
make such thorough and immediate inves- 
tigation as was in his power. 

He closely examined his man Pat as 
to the condition of things in and around 


20 


Paul's Angel. 


the bam on the previous night : At what 
hour was he there last? Did he have a 
pipe in his mouth? Was there any one 
with him ? Had he seen any one during 
the day there ? Had he any reason to 
suspect ill will felt toward himself as 
judge by any one in Carlton? In short, 
could he give him even a broad guess as 
to its origin? 

Of course Pat, who never knew much 
in his best estate, demoralized by what 
had taken place, could only give the most 
vague and unsatisfactory answers to all 
these questions. So the judge sent him 
into his house to bed, and continued his 
investigations alone. 

What a dreary scene the gray light of 
the morning rose upon ! 

The judge stood for some time, with 
folded arms, looking down over it. One 
conviction was uppermost. It was not 
an accident, but the work of an incendi- 
ary. Some one, then, in Carlton bore him 
a grudge. Who was it, and for what ? 


Paul's Angel. 


21 


As the light increased, he began slowly 
to walk around the premises. In front 
there were the blackened piles ; on one 
side, his wagon, with an ox-cart, a plough, 
and a half -burned harrow. The other 
articles were not much injured, though 
scorched and discolored. In another, piles 
of the refuse, too worthless to burn, that 
accumulate around a farm barn ; at the 
back, something which made him at once 
stop in his walk, stoop, and examine 
closely. 

Not far from a bush whose leaves were 
withered and hung helpless, almost like 
human, suffering things, a remnant of a 
trail, a few chips half consumed, but still 
lying near together, in the form of a boy’s 
cob-house. Leaving this undisturbed, he 
considered one very important point settled. 

The fire was no providential event : it 
iv as the work of human hands. For a mo- 
ment, as this conviction was forming, he 
remembered the thunder shower which 
had seemed imminent at the time he went 


22 Paul's Angel. 

to bed. Had there been one, and had a 
flash of lightning struck the barn? But 
he recalled at once that the shower had 
passed over Carlton, with only the short, 
rushing wind, and a few large drops. He 
little knew how important a part, after 
all, it had played. 

As he passed a shed on his way to his 
house, his horse heard his steps, and 
neighed for him. He went in to see and 
pat him, then to assure himself that the 
cows — who, finding themselves free, of 
their own accord had. left the barn — were 
safe. 

This reminded him of Paul Douglas, 
the boy who had saved the horse’s life. 
He had hardly thought of him before since 
the event ; and even now the thought 
passed swiftly out of his mind, leaving 
the determination to hunt him up, and 
reward him at his first possible leisure, 
and also a half-defined feeling of admira- 
tion for the bravery of the act that had 
dared death only to save the life of a 
terrified horse. 


II. 



‘HE morning after the fire Judge Til- 


ton began anew to investigate its 
cause. As soon as a suspicion went 
abroad that it was the work of an incen- 
diary there was not a man, woman, or 
child who would not have been willing — 
more, eager — to help him unravel it. He 
was a popular man, who was considered an 
honor to the town. He had been sent 
several times as Representative, and was 
always a candidate for Congress, whenever 
a vacancy occurred. He had been judge 
in the county court almost from the time 
he began to practise law, and to doubt the 
legality or justice of his decisions would 
have been considered arrant treason. 

That any one could have been found 
wicked and ungrateful enough to do him 
so serious and notorious an injury as to 


24 


Paul's Angel. 


burn his new barn was an event of greater 
importance and mystery than had ever 
stirred Carlton before. 

There were many offers of assistance in 
his search for the incendiary made to him ; 
but he was too used to criminal practice 
not to know that reliable information can 
only be obtained by seeking it in the most 
quiet and thorough way, — the more quiet, 
the more thorough. So he declined all 
these offers, saying he was in no special 
hurry, and that sooner or later the in- 
cendiary would be brought to justice. 

He left the remains of the barn as they 
were ; and, though he might have been 
seen now and then hovering around it, 
he expressed no opinion, and to the won- 
dering lookers-on seemed almost uncon- 
cerned. 

One afternoon, examining what re- 
mained of the barn, he saw something 
glittering under an old stump. 

Drawing it out, he found a much bat- 
tered kerosene can. 


Paul's Angel. 


25 


This lie examined carefully. It looked 
like many another old oil - can. A less 
experienced person would not have thought 
it of the least consequence, but the judge 
knew how evidence is often found in the 
most unexpected ways. Both top and 
stopper were lost. He searched in vain 
among the grass and weeds that grew 
close to the stump for them. One thing 
only the finding of the can seemed likely 
to prove, — that kerosene had been used 
to kindle the fire ; and, if so, of course it 
was the work of an incendiary. Valuable 
for this, he was carrying it to his house, 
when he accidentally turned it bottom side 
up ; and there upon the bottom, scratched 
with a boy’s dull knife, were the initials 
“P. C. D.” 

“ P. C. D.,” “P. C. D.,” he repeated. 
“There’s my clew. Who is ‘P. C. D.’?” 

He carried the can into his office, and 
locked it safely away. Then he took out 
a roll containing the names of the voters 
of the town, and looked it carefully over. 


26 


Paul's Angel . 


Duncan, Drew, Dillingham, Doley, Drant- 
son, Davidson, Donelson, and twenty 
more D’s, but not one with those three 
initials. 

Carlton was a small town, though a 
county one ; yet he was not to be supposed 
to know the name of every family there. 
There were widows, who could not vote, 
but who had sons. He tried to recall the 
names of some of these, but he knew 
few. So he put on his hat, and went out 
into the little burying-ground back of the 
church. The husbands’ names would be 
upon the tombstones, he thought; and 
there he found many of them, but none 
with names bearing these initials that 
might have descended to their sons. 

As he was leaving the yard, he stopped 
before a grave without a stone. He knew 
it well. Beneath it lay a young man he 
had sentenced to State Prison for a forgery 
committed five years ago. 

The case had always been one which 
had drawn heavily upon his sympathies. 


Paul's Angel. 


27 


The convict was a man of ability and 
promise ; but in an evil hour he bad spec- 
ulatei, lost money, and drawn a forged 
note for a small amount, upon the judge, 
to pay bis debts. 

The crime bad been discovered at once ; 
and, as the law makes little difference in 
its sentence on account of the amount 
forged, the act, great or small, being the 
same in its eye, the sentence was passed 
by the judge, who, bad be been in any less 
responsible position, would gladly have 
condoned the offence on account of bis 
great pity for the sinner. He could not 
now lessen the severity of the sentence or 
save the disgrace which had fallen upon 
him and upon his family. 

Two years only in prison, and the young 
man died, broken-hearted. This was his 
grave. 

The judge started as he recalled the 
name, Douglas , — the father of the boy 
whose bravery had saved his horse. 

He then remembered, what certainly he 


28 


Paul's Angel. 


should not have forgotten, no matter how 
preoccupied he had been, that he had not 
yet seen the boy, thanked, or rewarded 
him for the great service he had done him, 
so he went at once to his mother’s house. 

It was a small house on the outskirts of 
the village, — one urged upon Mrs. Doug- 
las by the judge, when her penniless con- 
dition, after her husband’s sentence, had 
driven her out of the comfortable home he 
had provided for her. 

She was at best a weak woman, and the 
blow seemed to have deprived her of what 
little sense she had. 

She had a maundering, whining sort of 
way, keeping constantly before her two 
children — Paul and little Ruth, born de- 
formed, after her father’s imprisonment — 
not the crime for which they were all suf- 
fering, hut the cruel injustice, which for 
the matter of a few dollars had sentenced 
the father to death and the family to a 
life of extreme poverty and disgrace. 

It was no wonder, then, that Paul grew 


Paul's Angel . 


29 


up with an intense dislike, as near hatred 
as could find a place in a boy’s unreason- 
ing soul, for Judge Tilton. 

Never to him had his mother spoken of 
any distinct plan of revenge ; but the de- 
sire for it, in her poor, pitiable, crushed 
life, was the one strong emotion. Indeed, 
her whole nature had become warped in 
that direction, until her mind had lost 
what little balance it ever had ; and a dis- 
creet physician would not have hesitated 
to pronounce her better fitted for a life in 
an insane asylum than one spent in the 
rearing of her children. 

In spite of all this, the kind Lord who 
takes up the father-and-mother-forsaken 
little ones seemed to have taken up Paul ; 
for a nobler boy it would have been hard 
to find. He was young when his father 
died, and had all the helplessness of a 
petted child. The only knowledge he had 
of the true nature of forgery came to him 
from the jeers and hints of the hoys in the 
streets and at school. Consequently, as 


30 


Paul's Angel. 


he grew older, he shunned companions, 
refused to go to school, sought work when 
he could find it among the older and more 
considerate people of the town, and in 
some way, unnoticed and uncared for, 
grew from the little boy into the tall and 
slender stripling that he was on the night 
of the fire. 

Now and then he did attract a momen- 
tary attention to himself by some act of 
heroism, like the rescue of Jim Strong 
from drowning, or the vigorous way in 
which, amidst boys’ scrapes, he clung to 
the naked truth ; but, take it for all in all, 
Paul Douglas’ life was of very little im- 
portance to the town of Carlton. 

For the last year he had worked upon 
a farm of Judge Tilton’s, rented by Mr. 
Drake. He was faithful, as boys go ; but 
Mr. Drake never could understand why 
he was told by Judge Tilton to pay much 
larger wages than such a boy could fairly 
earn ; hut so it was. He grumbled a little 
every Saturday night, when he put the 


Paul's Angel. 


3i 


extra into Paul’s hand, and said the same 
words over, until Paul began to consider 
them a part of the money he held. 

“ There ain’t no boy in Carlton gits 
such wages; but it’s all along of the 
judge, and you see to’t, next week, that 
you ’arn it.” 

What the judge’s connection with it 
might be Paul never took the trouble to 
inquire : indeed, this man, in some myste- 
rious way, seemed to him mixed up with 
• his life, — oftener, however, to his harm 
than to his good ; not to be forgiven, this 
judge, by this fatherless boy ! 

Working in the field with Mr. Drake 
of late, Paul had begun to talk to him 
about his future ; and, much to Mr. Drake’s 
surprise, he found Paul with ambitious 
dreams, that he thought under other cir- 
cumstances might have been realized. 

Once or twice Paul had dropped some 
revengeful words — boy’s unmeaning words 
— with regard to Judge Tilton, little 
thinking how important under other cir- 
cumstances they might become. 


32 


Paul's Angel. 


Judge Tilton had not been a stranger to 
the feeling both Mrs. Douglas and Paul 
bore him. It was therefore with some 
doubts as to his reception that he ap- 
proached the house. He knew that hith- 
erto the very sight of him had thrown Mrs. 
Douglas into a fit of uncontrollable agita- 
tion ; but, nevertheless, the boy must be 
seen, thanked, and rewarded. What a 
singular coincidence, he thought, as he 
knocked at the door, that Paul should 
have saved his horse ! 

It was some time before it was opened; 
and, when it was, he saw that Mrs. Doug- 
las’ eyes were wild, and red with weeping. 

“Has anything happened?” he asked 
abruptly. 

“ He’ll never be well again, never,” she 
answered. 

“ Who ? What is the matter ? ” 

“It’s Paul. O Judge Tilton, are you 
going to be the death of us all?” 

“ What is the matter with Paul ? ” 

Instead of answering, she threw the 


Paul's Angel . 


33 


cloor wide open and pointed to an old 
lounge, on which, with his head between 
his hands, taking no notice of the coming 
in of a visitor, sat Paul. 

“Why, Paul, my boy,” said the judge 
kindly, u what is the matter ? ” 

Paul slowly raised his head from his 
hands and looked at the judge. His face 
was a sight to behold ! The fire had 
struck him full in it, burning off his eye- 
brows and eyelashes, blistering his cheeks 
and chin, scorching also his forehead. 
The back of one hand was badly burned ; 
and, as he moved his head, an expression 
of intense pain passed over his disfigured 
face. 

“ Burned ! ” exclaimed the judge. 

“ But Billy’s safe,” answered Paul, with 
an attempt at a smile which only made the 
change of expression all the more painful. 

“Yes, Billy’s safe, thanks to you; all 
but a few burns on his right side. My 
poor boy, how sorry I am for you ! ” 

“ I’m glad for Billy,” said Paul, ignor- 
ing the sympathy. 


34 


Paul's Angel. 


The judge drew a chair up by Paul’s 
side, and sat down. To talk about thanks 
or reward to a boy in that condition 
seemed almost an insult. What could he 
do ? What should he say ? 

“Have you had a doctor?” at last 
asked the judge. 

“No,” said Paul, surlily. 

“ Then you must.” 

“No, I mustn’t,” he answered in the 
same surly tone. “ It don’t matter.” 

“ It does matter, Paul.” And the judge 
took refuge from the feelings which rather 
overcame him by rising and speaking with 
as much dignity as if he was delivering a 
verdict in the court-room. “ When a boy 
has been as noble and as brave as you 
have been, everything matters, — at least, 
to me ! ” 

“ He’s scarred for life, my Paul,” whim- 
pered his mother. “ He’ll never be fit to 
look at again, my handsome boy.” 

As she spoke, the judge bent over Paul, 
examining the burns. 


Paul's Angel ’ 


35 


“ I am glad to tell you,” he said, “ these 
burns are only skin-deep. Care and skill 
will soon make you all right again, and 
until you can go to work the care of the 
doctor’s bill and your family is mine, Paul. 
No,” — seeing the objection that had rushed 
to Paul’s lips,— “ don’t object. All I can 
do until you are out again won’t he half 
or quarter the worth of my horse to me. 
I’ll go at once and send Dr. Curtis to 
you.” 

As he was passing out of the door, he 
saw a book lying open at the fly-leaf on 
the table. He glanced at the initials 
written in a large, round hand upon it, — 
“P. C. D.” 

“ What is your name, — your whole 
name ? ” he asked, turning suddenly upon 
the astonished boy. 

“ Paul Camden Douglas,” answered 
Paul, without a moment’s hesitation. 

“ Paul Camden Douglas ! ” repeated the 
judge, slowly ; then to himself, but half- 
aloud, “ how dreadful ! how dreadful ! ” 


36 


Paul's Angel. 


He hurried to Dr. Curtis’ office, sending 
him at once to Paul, and telling him to 
spare no expense to save the hoy from suf- 
fering and scars. Then he went to his 
office, and sat down to think. 

Nothing could have been more unex- 
pected to him. In spite of what he knew 
of the feelings of the family toward him, 
that Paul so long after his father’s death 
could have sought such a method of re- 
venge — indeed, that he could have been 
capable of it — seemed to him an impos- 
sibility. Yet here was a second link in 
circumstantial evidence, a very important 
one. What could he do ? 

Arson was a great crime. Had any 
other person’s barn been burned, and he 
held the proofs of the incendiary as he 
held these now, he saw very plainly he 
should have but one course to pursue. 
Paul’s mother’s words kept ringing in 
his ears: “ O Judge Tilton, are you going 
to be the death of us all?” Was not it 
enough that once, and then for a crime 


Paul's Angel. 


37 


committed against himself, he had blighted 
all these lives ? Must he again and now, 
when Paul was just beginning apparently 
to recover from the blow which his hand 
had dealt upon his young life, strike an- 
other? Had this later change in Paul’s 
feelings been* only a blind to cover his ma- 
turing plans for revenge ? But, if so, why, 
why had he made such brave and resolute 
efforts to save the horse? 

It might have been as Avell for the judge 
if the man had been less tender-hearted. 
As it was, he put aside all other business, 
and went home to examine the kerosene 
can again, hoping he had made some mis- 
take ; but a second examination was only 
the more conclusive. He saw now on the 
handle was the name “ Douglas ” faintly 
and scrawlingly marked. There could be 
no mistake, — P. C. D. on the bottom, 
Douglas on the handle. 

Under other circumstances he would 
have made the arrest at once; but now 
what could he do? 


38 Paul's Angel. 

When Dr. Curtis went to Paul, he found 
the burns not deep, but giving him great 
pain. Paul’s account of the way in which 
he received them was very simple. Once, 
while he was on Billy’s back, it seemed as 
if he was in the midst of the fire, but the 
horse sprang out of it. Then there was a 
great noise, and he had to push his way 
through a crowd, his face smarted so, and 
— and he couldn’t see, he continued, drop- 
ping his head ; he would have stayed, but 
it smarted so, and it was — was dark, too. 
Ought he to have stayed and helped?” 

The doctor answered carelessly, “ I don’t 
think Judge Tilton will ever blame you, 
Paul, for anything you left undone in that 
fire : no need to worry.” But he thought 
how little Paul suspected of the many 
kind things which were said about his 
bravery in Carlton, or how constantly he 
had become the theme of remark. 

One day he brought to Paul some pretty 
tin plates from Judge Tilton, with the re- 
quest that he should mark his own initials 


Paul's Angel. 39 

on one and Ruth’s on the other. This 
seemed a strange request both to the doc- 
tor and to Paul; but, nevertheless, he 
began to comply with it at once, — he to 
mark his own, and Ruth, “ who was to be 
a sculptor one of these days,” the other. 
She was always marking something. 
“ See,” Paul said, showing letters cut 
roughly into the bottom of some flower- 
boxes, “all this is her work, and some- 
times she whittles cats and dogs out of 
bits of wood. Not so bad, either, for such 
a mite of a child ! ” 

Paul tried with fingers that were any- 
thing but deft to do what he was asked. 
Ruth, happy over the first task ever given 
her, worked away gleefully. The next 
day after the plates had been brought they 
were ready to return. 

Paul’s was very poorly done, not a line 
in any one of them corresponded with 
those scratched upon the can ; but those 011 
Ruth’s were identical. Surely, there were 
proofs enough that the can which had con- 


40 


Paul's Angel. 


tained the oil used by the incendiary came 
from the home of the Douglases. 

Judge Tilton, urged on by his sense of 
justice, and held back by his regret over 
every fresh proof of Paul’s guilt, was con- 
scious of never in his life suffering so 
much from what seemed to him the dis- 
charge of a duty. Many a time he re- 
solved to bury all he knew in his own 
heart. He made numberless excuses for 
so doing to himself. He would keep a 
close watch over Paul. If he caught him 
in the slightest unlawful act, he would 
accuse him of this ; and, no matter how 
long a time had passed, he would have 
him punished. The boy’s name so far was 
unblemished. Following out this course, 
the judge made many inquiries about him. 
It was rather a singular fact, but well 
worth noting, that the one trait dwelt most 
upon was Paul’s love of the truth. It had 
stamped him through and through. It is 
not to be supposed that this boy, living his 
hard and in many respects his ignoble life. 


Paul's Angel. 41 

had ever dreamed that he had a charac- 
ter; but so it was, and so it is with us all. 
What we are ! It is proclaimed from the 
very house-tops, and there are always 
plenty of sharp ears to listen. 

An ordinary boy with this trait — a 
marked one — is generally both a brave 
and a noble one. He is brave, for he has 
nothing to conceal ; and he is noble, for he 
has not the temptations to evade or escape 
that beset those who walk in crooked 
paths. 

But, after all, the matter was to be 
taken out of Judge Tilton’s hands. Some- 
how, he could never tell how, it came to 
be known that he was possessed of facts 
with regard to the fire which he refused to 
make public. 

The wildest surmises as to what they 
might be were afloat. Every chance that 
he in his upright life had given to excite ill 
will was recalled and discussed, the inno- 
cent often made into the greatest offender, 
until, not so much in self-defence as in 


42 


Paul's Angel. 


defence of others, he was obliged to own 
that he had reasons for suspecting who was 
the incendiary, though he decidedly re- 
fused to give the slightest hint as to who 
it might be. 

Thus a storm is preparing to break over 
Paul’s head. If he is innocent, he has 
much to suffer. If he is guilty, he will 
find a very poor excuse in his desire to 
revenge that dead father whose memory 
he had so little reason to respect and who 
had died so many years ago. 

In the mean time he is slowly recover- 
ing. Dr. Curtis is sent by Judge Tilton 
to visit him every day. And the judge 
himself, grave and often stern, comes fre- 
quently, a most unwelcome guest, to 
Widow Douglas’ house. 


III. 


TT was now time for the holding of the 
June court, and the usual preparation 
for the event filled Carlton with more than 
ordinary bustle and interest. 

Reticent as Judge Tilton had been 
about the fire, it was acknoAvledged on all 
sides that at this time something definite 
must be done or said. 

Public feeling ran so high that many 
were heard to remark, if he persisted in 
his silent course, it would cost him his 
place ; for, should an incendiary for any 
reason be let off without suffering the 
extremest rigor of the law, the safety of 
the whole community would be endan- 
gered. 

A few of the judge’s most intimate 
friends ventured to give him a glimpse of 
his unpopular course ; but he received it 


44 Paul's Angel ’ 

in a way that silenced all further attempts, 
though, in truth, it produced its effect 
upon him. The judge had no doubt what 
it was his duty to do ; but how could he ? 

Behind the many present hindrances was 
the memory of Paul’s father’s blighted life. 
For the sin that caused the blight he was 
not to blame ; but, he wondered, could not 
he have been more tolerant in his verdict? 
Were there not extenuating circumstances 
that should have influenced him more, in 
spite of the verdict of the jury ? 

In this case, all the proofs of Paul’s 
guilt were in his own hands. Concealing 
the kerosene can, no expert, so far as he 
could see, — and he had been most thor- 
ough in his investigation, — could find the 
slightest clew to Paul’s guilt. He was 
tempted, more than once, to hold the case, 
and, as he was the injured one, to assume 
the fire to be an accident, and let it pass, 
in spite of the demand of the public. 

The conviction, however, of Paul’s guilt, 
grew with every interview with him ; for 


Paul's Angel. 


45 


Paul, only half knowing what Judge Til- 
ton was kindly doing for him, and affected 
more and more, as he stayed quietly at 
home with her, by his mother’s nervous 
condition, was always sulky, silent, and 
annoyed by the judge’s presence. 

One thing the judge noted : Paul never 
looked him in the face, never spoke of the 
fire, and, if he happened to mention it be- 
fore him, seemed uneasy, and glad to have 
the subject turned. 

Several times he had asked Paul di- 
rectly if he could make a guess, as he had 
been sent so often from the farm where he 
worked to the barn, how it could have 
happened; hut Paul always answered in 
a dazed way, “ No, sir,” and nothing 
more. 

“ Poor Paul ! poor Paul ! ” that was the 
burden of the judge’s thoughts, as the 
long, beautiful June days drew on to the 
time when the court must be held, and 
the trial, if trial there was, come off. In 
the mean time, Paul was growing stronger 


4 6 Paul's Angel. 

and healthier than he had ever been be- 
fore. 

The doctor’s visits ceased, and he re- 
sumed his work upon the farm, with a 
face still discolored from the effects of the 
barn, and without eyebrows or eyelashes, 
— a changed boy in personal appearance. 
He had never been handsome, but there 
was something in his face which made 
those not familiar with him look at him 
a second time. They did that now, — they 
stared at him, — but for a very different 
reason. 

For this Paul cared but little. He was 
delighted to be free from pain, to be at 
liberty to go out again, to resume his 
work, and to find, to his great surprise, 
that his wages were doubled. He never 
suspected this was an act of Judge Til- 
ton’s kindness also ; and it was well that 
he did not. 

If Paul is guilty, his conscience has 
been seared with a very hot iron, indeed ; 
but, somehow, in the inscrutable provi- 


47 


Paul's Angel. 

dences, such irons are always ready to 
bring out the true character, whatever it 
may be. 

Just what decision Judge Tilton would 
have come to, had it been left for him, 
will never be known ; for it was most un- 
expectedly taken out of his hands. 

One morning Johnny Miller came to 
his office, and said with a grin : “ Grand- 
marm wants to see yer. She says she 
must : she plagued mother ’most to death 
for two days to send for yer, and this 
morning she cornered me, and gin me a 
dime to fotch yer. She wants to see yer 
bad.” 

“See me bad?” repeated the judge, 
smiling. “Well, then, tell her I am very 
busy ; but I will drop in — let me think — 
about five this afternoon. And here’s an- 
other dime for you,” — throwing him a 
ten-cent piece, — “ if you will carry my an- 
swer straight, and at once. I haven’t a 
moment to waste.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered John, catching the 


48 


Paul's Angel. 


dime, and spending it at the first candy 
counter he passed. 

Judge Tilton wondered for a moment 
what could old, rheumaticky Mrs. Miller 
want of him. She had no will to make, 
for she had no property to leave ; and, 
though she was only a mother-in-law, he 
had never heard of any serious domestic 
disturbances. However, he determined to 
see her, then forgot her in his press of 
work. 

He was punctual to a moment, and 
found her in a small house close by the 
little white church, from whose bell had 
been rung the alarm of fire. The windows 
looked out directly upon the church, and 
her bed was so placed as to command the 
windows. 

She was expecting him, and, dressed in 
a snowy cap and best gown, she was not 
an unpleasant-looking old woman, though 
her hands were distorted by rheumatism, 
and her feet seemed also twisted into 
an unnatural shape. But her eyes were 


Paul' s Angel 


49 


bright and clear, and the smile with which 
she received him had in it none of the 
senility of old age. 

“ Glad to see ye ! ” she said, holding out 
one of those hands toward the judge. 

He hesitated an instant, then took it 
gently, pity lighting up his face. 

“ Sit down, won’t ye ? and ” (looking 
anxiously toward the door and nodding) 
“shet that tight. Now come close to me. 
Hepsibah will be dropping in bimeby, and 
there isn’t no time to lose. I’m terribly 
upset to have to tell you, but it’s borne in 
on me that, if I was to die to-night, God, 
he’d say to me, Sara Ann Miller, why 
didn’t ye do your duty by the boy and 
the judge and the rest of ’um? 

“I shouldn’t like to say to the Lord 
that I was sort of chicken-hearted ’cause 
the boy had had a hard lot on’t. That 
wouldn’t do, would it now, judge?” 

The judge, startled by what she had 
said, could only answer: — 

“ Better tell it all, Mrs. Miller. What 


50 


Paul's Angel. 


is it about ? Who is the boy ? ” But, 
while the judge said these words calmly, 
he was earnestly hoping the story he was 
to hear might be favorable for Paul. 

“ So I’ve been thinking,” went on Mrs. 
Miller; “and, judge, hitch your cheer up 
a leetle nigher, never mind an old woman. 
I want to whisper to ye.” 

The judge moved his chair close to her 
side, and bent his head over her. 

“It’s about the fire,” she whispered. 
“ That night my rheumatiz troubled me 
awful, and what with the pains and groans 
I couldn’t sleep, so I got Hepsibah to 
hist up my winder shade so I could look 
out to the meetin’ ’ouse. It kind of com- 
forts me, judge, to look at it, for I think 
it’s God’s house ; and, though I shall never 
go nigh it agin until I’m carried in, it 
seems to me as if I got nearer Him, and 
could hear the prayers and the psalm- 
singing once agin. 

“ Well, I jist laid there, and looked out. 
Hepsibah, she allers, after nine, puts a 


Paul's Angel. 51 

light on the post of the front gate. 
There’s a reason for it, judge ; but that’s 
her bisness, and not yours o* mine. It’s 
company for me, ’cause it’s a street light, 
and I see the church all the better for’t, 
and the folks when they pass by. 

“ That night I saw a boy come by ; and, 
as he come opposite my winder, he turned 
his face toward it, and — judge, a little 
closer — I’m afeard it was Widow Doug- 
las’ boy. He went right up the steps of 
the church, and then the bell begun to 
ring, and the folks to cry 4 Fire ! ’” 

Mrs. Miller stopped here, and shook 
her head significantly ; but the judge made 
no remark, so she went on : — 

44 Pretty soon he came out, and went by 
here agin. I got up on my elbow to get 
a better look at him, and, if it wasn’t Paul 
Douglas, it was his ghost.” 

44 What do you infer from all this ? ” 
asked the judge, gravely, after a minute’s 
silence. 

44 That ain’t my bisness, it’s your’n,” she 


52 


Paul's Angel. 


answered as gravely. “ How came Paul 
up at that time of night, when he ought to 
have been abed and asleep? I declare to 
you, judge, I pity Widow Douglas so 1 
could e’eny jist cry for her. The Lord’s 
hard on a poor woman. Woe’s me for 
saying so ; and Paul, he’s been a comfort 
to her, — a stiddy, truth- telling boy, as 
every boy’ll tell ye, judge. 

“ It’s hard. I ’most wish I’d held my 
tongue, and trusted the good Lord to for- 
give me.” 

The judge, in his heart, wished so, too ; 
but that did not help him now. Here was 
another link in the chain of the evidence 
against Paul. 

As the judge began to think over the 
announcement of the fire, he could recall, 
what had at first made only an indistinct 
impression upon him, that the voice which 
waked him was a boy’s voice ; but whose ? 

W as he finally scared by the mischief he 
had done ? Did he, in his fright, first call 
him, then rush to the bell to summon all 


Paul's Angel. 


53 


the help he conic! raise to extinguish the 
fire? When did Paul first make his ap- 
pearance at the fire ? 

While these thoughts were passing rap- 
idly through his mind, Mrs. Miller sat 
steadily looking at him, then she said : — 

“You don’t, now, judge, think it could 
have been Paul that sot fire to your barn? 
Seems to me, I’d bear my rheumatiz an- 
other whole year, without praying to the 
good Lord to take me, if I could hear you 
honestly say, ‘No, Mis’ Miller, I don’t see 
no evidence.’ ” 

But the judge could not say so, and the 
old woman began to rock herself back and 
forth, as if her mental trouble was a pair 
of rockers, which once set in motion would 
quiet her. All Judge Tilton could say to 
her was : — 

“ I think you have simply done your 
duty, Mrs. Miller. I thank you for telling 
me. Say nothing about it to any one else, 
until you hear from me again.” 

Here Hepsibah opened the door, putting 


54 


Paul's Angel. 


an unkempt head, with an inquiring, 
peaked face, within it. Judge Tilton took 
his leave, and Mrs. Miller, with closed 
lips, went herself to her bed, where she 
groaned in body and in spirit for the next 
two hours. 

Judge Tilton went at once to Mrs. 
Douglas’ house. If possible, an alibi must 
be found. 

Paul had not returned when he reached 
the house. Mrs. Douglas and Ruth were 
sitting together on the porch, picking over 
dandelion greens, which Ruth had limped 
out on her little crutch to gather. They 
were evidently surprised to see him, and 
not glad. 

“ Paul has not come home yet,” said his 
mother, the color coming slowly into her 
face. 

“Not yet,” repeated the judge, with a 
sorry attempt at a smile. “ Then I shall 
have to make my call on little Miss Ruth.” 

Now Ruth was the only one of the fam- 
ily at ease in his company, and, when he 


55 


Paul's Angel. 

lifted her upon his knee, she leaned her 
head against him, seeming quite at home 
there. 

Most unexpectedly, she helped him. “ I 
wish,” she said, as he led the talk round 
to the fire, “ I could have seen the big barn 
go ! What a splendiferous big fire it must 
have made ! Didn’t it almost put the stars 
out?” 

“Not quite,” said the judge, laughing 
softly. 

“ Paul should have taken me ; I wanted 
to go awfully, but he wasn’t here.” 

“ Not here ! Why, where was he ? He 
was at the fire : you know he saved my 
Billy ! ” 

“I know, I know; everybody tells me,” 
she said impatiently ; “ but I didn’t see it, 
all the same. Paul was gone away, — - he 
went right after tea. If he’d have been 
here, he’d have taken me, when 1 wanted 
to go, if he had carried me pick-a-back.” 

“ Where was Paul ? ” 

“ Oh, gone away somewhere. He don’t 


56 


Paul's Angel. 


go often, — that’s the worst part of it. If 
he hadn’t gone, I should have seen it all ! ” 

“ But you haven’t told me where Paul 
went.” 

“ ’Cause I don’t know. Mother does, I 
suppose.” 

The judge looked at Mrs. Douglas for 
an answer. After a moment’s silence, she 
said hesitatingly, — 

“ Paul went to Camden, to get a job.” 

“ Did he get it?” asked the judge, ea- 
gerly. 

“No: he said another boy was before 
him, and he lost it. He didn’t come home 
until after the fire. I knew where he 
would be when I heard the bell.” 

Judge Tilton could only ask, “ Does he 
often have chores to do after a hard day’s 
work?” 

“ I never knew him to before,” his 
mother said. 

“Did he ring the fire-bell?” the judge 
asked incautiously. 

“ I did not hear him say : he might ; 


Paul's Angel. 57 

he’s always ready to ; he helps Mr. Bemis 
almost every Sunday.” 

44 He says it’s great fun,” put in Ruth. 
44 Sometimes he swings me as he pulls the 
bell. Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! ” and Ruth 
swung herself almost out of the judge’s 
lap, imitating him. 

In the judge’s mind there remained now 
not even the shadow of a doubt. He went 
back to his office with very troubled 
thoughts. Matters had come to a crisis 
that must be met. Look whatever way 
he would, the judge could see no escape. 
He must condone the offence, or at once 
have Paul arrested and confined in the 
county jail until after his trial. 

44 If,” thought the judge, 44 he was capa- 
ble of setting fire to my barn and acting 
towards me as he has since, he has an old 
offender’s head on his young shoulders; 
and, if he gets the least wind of my suspi- 
cions, he will be off.” 

The judge’s heart wished he would run 
away ; but his judicial head told him, if he 


53 


Paul's Angel. 


should, it would not be the last evil thing 
that would be heard of him. He was un- 
prepared to face the consequences that 
might follow. 

One other motive influenced him, — the 
ultimate good of the boy. A few years of 
discipline now, even in prison, would 
surely be better for him in the end than 
the life he would probably plunge into. 

That night the constable, good old Mr. 
Griffin, was sent to arrest him. 

Paul had finished a hard day’s work, and 
was coming whistling home, when he saw 
a strange horse and wagon standing before 
his mother’s door. 

Hurrying a little to see who it might 
be, he met Mr. Griffin coming toward him. 

Now there was not a boy in Carlton who 
did not know the constable by sight, and 
who had not in his heart a certain dread of 
him, — not so much a personal fear as a 
feeling that he was a very august person, 
in whose presence it would be better for 
every one to keep a clean conscience. 





































































/ 



































//•* 














. 




w- 





Paul's Angel. 


59 


lie stopped as lie came opposite Paul, 
and laid his hand gently on the boy’s 
shoulder. 

“ I’m sorry, young man,” he said, not 
unkindly, “to be sent on such an errand, 
but 1 must do my duty. You are arrested 
for setting fire to Judge Tilton’s barn.” 

“ Sir ! ” said Paul, stopping short and 
staring wildly in the constable’s face. 

“That’s the way my warrant reads,” 
fumbling clumsily in his pocket, and tak- 
ing out a legal-looking paper. 

“ I’m sent to arrest Paul Camden Doug- 
las for maliciously setting fire to Judge 
Tilton’s barn on the night of the 2d day 
of June — 

“You are to go with me to — to” — 
hesitating, and looking in Paul’s pale face 
with his own full of pity, — “ to the house 
where such boys spend their time before 
the — the time of examining them. 

“You can go in to your mother, and 
pack up a change of clothes: there isn’t 
any special hurry, but you had better be 


6o 


Paul's Angel. 


as spry as you can, and, Paul” — Then he 
stopped suddenly, and, looking down into 
Paul’s quivering, amazed face, he added : — 
“ Paul Douglas, you’ve always been con- 
sidered a boy of truth. I may say, Paul, 
we all believed you. My boy Ben, — he 
says you can’t lie. So now, Paul, Paul, 
say , did you do it ? ” 

No answer from Paul, only that terrible 
dumb appeal that comes sometimes on the 
face of a stricken animal. 

41 Paul! ’’said the sheriff again, giving 
the boy a gentle shake. “My Ben says 
you can’t tell a lie : did you do it ? An- 
swer me. Did you, or did you not ? ” 

Still no answer, only a convulsive heav- 
ing of the chest, and a few steps foward 
toward the door, where he saw his mother 
waiting for him. 

The constable loosed his hold. Paul 
staggered forward and almost dropped 
upon his mother, who drew him in, and 
shut the door. 


CHAPTER IV. 


\^7HAT passed behind that closed 
* * door will never be known. 

Mr. Griffin walked up and down before 
the house like a sentinel, occasionally 
going round to the back, examining it, ap- 
parently to see if it offered any means of 
escape ; but not a sound from without or 
within disturbed the stillness. 

In the blithe air, birds, happy June birds, 
sang merrily, floating about on idle, free 
wings. Insects chirped, and hopped tamely 
to the constable’s big, dusty feet. The 
old gray cat, asleep on the back steps in 
the sun, got up, stretched herself, and came 
toward him, yawning widely and looking 
at him with round green eyes. 

The big official felt uncomfortable. 
There was something almost like death 
in the stillness of the family amidst the 


62 


Paul's Angel. 


gay June life. It was uncanny, and he 
wished himself well out of it. For the 
first time since he had been made consta- 
ble the honor became burdensome. How 
long and how patiently he strode up 
and down there he always remembered. 
He saw the shadows, long when he drove 
up to the house, hide themselves away in 
the dun gray of the fading twilight before 
he could make up his mind to knock upon 
the door. This, at last, he did gently, with 
his big brown knuckles. 

No notice was taken of it. He waited 
a few minutes longer, then knocked again 
with more official importance. 

Instantly the door was opened a few 
inches, and in the opening appeared the 
sweet, pale face of the little cripple. 

“Where’s Paul?” the constable asked, 
vainly trying to steady his voice, at the 
same time pushing gently on the door. 

Evidently, the child was endeavoring to 
hold it against him. Such puny little 
hands ! You could trace every vein in 


63 


Paul's Angel. 

them as they clung to the door. Mr. 
Griffin removed them tenderly, as he 
would have done those of a helpless in- 
fant, pushed the door wide open, and en- 
tered. 

Paul sat by a table, his hands leaning 
on it, his head on his hands. His mother 
was close beside him. 

44 Paul ! ” said the constable. 44 Come, 
boy ! Don’t take it so hard. Just as 
likely as not, now, nothing won’t come 
out of it. Somebody did it; that’s clear 
as daylight, and you happen to be the only 
fellow they can get hold on. If you did 
do it, all you got to say when they ask 
you is, 4 Guilty ’ ; and, considering your 
father and all, I shouldn’t be a mite sur- 
prised if they let you off easy; and, if 
you didn’t do it, why, then, you’d oughter 
say, 4 Not guilty, yer honor,’ and, I dare 
say, if you said so, you could prove it, for 
everybody sets a store by your way of 
speaking the truth. They do, now, upon 
my word. My Ben says, and he said it 


6 4 


Paul's Angel. 


over to me when lie knew my arrant here, 
‘Father, you ask him right out, and, you 
bet, he won’t tell you nothing but the 
truth, if he hangs for’t.’ 

“ Come, now, cheer up, and be a man 
about it, — that’s your best way ; and, 
marm,” turning to Paul’s mother, “ if you 
could put him a clean shirt or two, and a 
pair or so of stockings, they might come 
handy. I don’t mind waiting a bit for 
them.” 

Neither Paul nor his mother answered 
or stirred, and the constable moved impa- 
tiently around the room. What was to 
be done next? 

“ Come, Paul, come ! ” he said coax- 
ingly, putting his hands on the boy’s 
shoulders. 

Paul shrank away from them convul- 
sively at first, then got up, took his cap, 
and walked out of the door. 

To the constable’s dismay, he heard the 
sound of the little crutch behind them, as 
he followed Paul to the wagon. 


Paul's Angel ’ 


65 


“ Jump in,” he said, as they reached it. 
Paul obeyed ; then, turning, he saw Ruth, 
her hat in her hand, close behind him. 

“ Me, too,” she said, holding up her 
hands to him. 

“ You ! ” echoed the discomfited man. 

“ Me, too,” repeated the child. 

“ Oh, you, too ? ” a sudden thought 
coming to him. “ All right. Ask your 
mother, and you shall have a nice ride. 
Tell her I’ll bring you back safe and 
sound before bed-time.” 

“ Lift me, Paul,” she said, by way of 
answer, turning to him from the constable. 
“ I’m going, too ! ” 

Paul lifted her in, pulling her close to 
him, with his arm around her. 

“ Then I must,” said the constable, as 
he saw them. So he went back to the 
house, and, putting his head within the 
open door, called, — 

“ Miss Douglas, your little gal is a- 
going, too ; but I’ll bring her back safe 
and sound afore bed-time.” 


66 


Paul's Angel. 

Then he hurried to the wagon, not dar- 
ing to cast a second look at the woman, so 
still and stiff in her chair. 

“ Beats all how they take on,” he 
thought, as he took up the reins and drove 
away. He tried to talk to Ruth as they 
trotted slowly along toward the village. 
A ride was a great holiday to her, and not 
at all comprehending what had happened, 
with Paul by her side, she was almost 
happy. 

They had not driven far before she be- 
gan to chatter as only a child can, Paul 
listening to her with a vacant look, but 
listening. 

Mr. Griffin had chosen this hour for 
arresting Paul, because he thought they 
should be less likely to attract attention ; 
but the report was soon abroad in town 
that Judge Tilton had track of the incen- 
diary, and that the reason he had been so 
private in the matter was because Paul 
Douglas was implicated. Mr. Griffin had 
been closely watched all day, to see if any 


Paul's Angel. 


67 


movement was to be made to arrest the 
boy ; and when, at twilight, he was seen 
driving in his wagon over the road that 
led to Widow Douglas’ house, hardly a 
man, woman, or child, so deep was the 
interest felt, but became aware of it. 

Then began discussions anew with re- 
gard to the whole affair. Paul’s father’s 
career was called up from the grave that 
had covered it, and the old commandment 
of inherited sin never was given greater 
force. 

His mother's cherished and implacable 
hatred toward the judge, as the cause of 
all their sorrows and disgrace, was com- 
mented upon, and the blame of the crime, 
if crime there had been, was made to rest 
heavily upon her. 

“ If things hadn't gone so agin him,'’ 
old Deacon Jones said, “ Paul was as 
good a boy as ever came out of the Lord’s 
hands ; and, if he was spilt, somebody was 
to blame for't. He’s the truth-tell ingest 
boy in Carlton, and I never knew one who 


68 Paul's Angel. 

told the truth, and stuck to it through 
thick and thin.” 

Deacon Jones was a pillar in the church, 
a man whose solid worth made solid 
words ; and, when he had said this, the 
wave of feeling, which in consideration of 
his parents’ delinquencies had set against 
Paul’s innocence, turned in his favor. 

At the corner grocery, the grocery 
where one window was devoted to stale 
candy, nuts, and toy crackers, a crowd of 
hoys had gathered, and there you heard : — 

“ Paul Douglas set fire to the barn ! 
No siree, no more than I did. I tell you, 
he’s a brick ! Don’t you remember how 
he licked Ed Steams for lying about Pat 
Ryan ? Ed was bigger than him ; but he 
down with him, and there he held him till 
he owned up.” 

“And don’t you remember how when 
he tlirowed that ball into the school-room 
window, and teacher asked who did it, how 
he up and owned it before you could say 
Jack Robinson?” 


Paul's Angel. 


69 


One big boy, with his hands at the 
bottom of his pockets, stood still in a 
corner of the store, listening while this 
talk was going on. There was a large 
window in this corner, looking toward the 
street over which Paul was momentarily 
expected, and he never took his eyes oft it. 
Eager, troubled-looking eyes they were, 
and around some ugly, protruding lips 
there was a broad rim of scared white. 

One of the crowd turned suddenly upon 
him. 44 Say, Sam Kirby,” he said, 44 what 
was that about Paul and you once, — that 
scrape that you lied about and he wouldn’t, 
and you threatened to thrash him for tell- 
ing, and didn’t dare to.” 

44 None of your bis’ness,” said Sam, 
surlily. 

“Better keep still. Don’t sound well 
for Sam, but. does for t’other one.” 

44 Paul’s O K, and no more set fire to 
that barn than the rest of us did.” 

44 Look here, Sam, you don’t happen to 
know anything about it, now, do you ? ” 


70 


Paul's Angel ’ 


The color came slowly over Sam’s 
freckled face, and he growled,- — 

“ If you don’t want to be knocked over 
into next week, Rufe Town, you’d better 
keep still.” 

“ Brag is a good dog, hut Hold On is 
better,” answered Rufe, with a taunting 
laugh ; and just at this moment the wagon 
carrying Paul came in sight. 

“ There he is ! There he is ! ” went 
round the eager crowd. Then all was 
hushed. 

“It’s meaner than pusley,” said a big 
boy. “He looks like — like as if he was 
dead, and he didn’t no more do it than I 
did. Why don’t some one ask him ? 
He’d tell the truth about it, — he always 
does.” 

But the men and the boys were not the 
only ones who watched to-night. Hardly 
a door on the route but a mother stood in 
it, thinking what she should have done 
had it been her boy, and pitying Widow 
Douglas from the bottom of her heart. 


Paul's Angel. 71 

When they saw Paul's scared, frightened 
face, many an apron was applied furtively 
to the corner of the eyes, and hearts little 
used to feel for any other woes but their 
own went down with a heavy thump. 

The county jail was a most respectable- 
looking, two-storied, brick house. The 
front was entirely devoted to the comfort 
of the jailer and his family. White 
muslin window curtains marked the par- 
lor, gilded window shades the sitting- 
room, and green paper shades told of 
kitchen and dining-room ; but behind 
these came long rows of windows grated 
by heavy iron bars, an iron door leading 
within. In front of the jail there was a 
yard, a broad walk, bordered on each side 
by flower-beds, running through the mid- 
dle of it. 

To-night, when the constable’s wagon 
stopped, it was before the front door, in 
accordance with an express order from 
Judge Tilton. Usually, his passengers 
were landed at the iron door. 


72 


Paul's Angel. 


“Now jump out, Paul,” said Mr. 
Griffin, whose ride with cheery little 
Ruth had half restored his ebbing courage. 
“ I’ll take her out,” nodding toward the 
child, “ and let her run about while Ave go 
in. Mis’ Dane — she’s the — the man’s 
wife that keeps this house, she’s fond of 
posies and babies.” 

He lifted Ruth out carefully, put her 
crutch under her shoulder, and with an 
injunction to her “ not to touch,” left her, 
and went in with Paul. 

Mrs. Dane had also received, with 
some grumbling, directions from Judge 
Tilton as to Paul’s treatment. He was 
not to be put into the jail with other 
prisoners, but was to have a room by him- 
self, and to be well taken care of, the 
Judge making himself responsible for all 
extra expenses thus incurred. 

When she heard that Paul was sus- 
pected of being the incendiary, she at once 
believed it. Mrs. Douglas was a distant 
relative of hers, and she had not only been 


Paul's Angel. 


73 


shamed by the disgrace of the forgery, but 
indignantly held herself to be equally so 
by Mrs. Douglas’ open-spoken and impla- 
cable hatred of Judge Tilton. 

“ She’s foolish,” she confided often to her 
husband, “ or she’d let the thing lie buried 
with him, six foot deep, not be a-throwing 
it in everybody’s face as she does; but 
there, now, Nancy never was thought to 
have any more sense than a goose ever 
since she was born.” 

This new family disgrace was more than 
she could well bear, so she met Paul when 
he came in with Mr. Griffin with a frown 
of displeasure. 

But the frown gradually gave way as 
she saw how scared and broken down he 
looked, and how, even yet, his comely face 
was disfigured by the burns. 

“ How do you do, Paul Douglas ? ” she 
said gravely. “ I’m sorry to see you 
here ; but, if you be, you be, and the good 
Lord help you ! Come right upstairs.” 

With a wave of her hand she dismissed 


74 


Paul's Angel. 


the constable, — she was sole mistress here, 
even in her husband’s presence, — and led 
Paul straight to his room. 

It was a small, cheerful room, with one 
window, across which were put stout 
wooden bars ; but in no other respect did 
it look like one intended for the confine- 
ment of a prisoner. In truth, the room was 
pleasanter than Paul’s at his own home. 

It was now almost dark ; but the win- 
dow faced the sunset, and the long lines 
of purple and gold clouds which come 
only into our New England horizon shone 
into the room, lighting up the gay roses 
on the paper with a fresher bloom, and 
sinking into the boy’s bewildered heart 
with a balm as soothing as if dropped 
there by God’s own kind hand. 

Paul seated himself wearily on a chair 
before the window, and looked out. He 
did not notice the wooden bars ; lie saw 
all the glories of the sunset, and how, 
away on the distant hills, they were re- 
flected in rosy hues. 


Pan r s A ngel. 7 5 

Close by tlie window was a tall sugar- 
maple, crowded with leaves : in the beauty 
of their June freshness birds were nestling. 
He could hear, in the stillness of the twi- 
light, the flapping of their wings and their 
soft cooing of domestic bliss. 

Mrs. Dane stood near him, with her 
arms akimbo, taking a leisurely survey of 
his face. Then she said, in a softer tone 
than she had spoken to him before : — 

“You’ll have your supper, and I hope 
you’ll ask a blessing on’t. Most of them 
don’t,” with a motion of her head over to 
the part of the house where the prisoners 
were kept ; “ but they’d oughter all the 
same. If anybody needs a blessing gin 
’um by the good Lord, it’s folks that come 
here ; and what ain’t wutli asking for ain’t 
wuth havin’, no day.” 

Then she left Paul alone, turning the 
key noisily in the lock as she went away. 

Paul heard it, but did not comprehend 
what it meant. 

“ He ain’t no more guilty than you 


76 Pan is Angel. 

be,”— that was Mrs. Dane’s comment 
when she went into the sitting-room 
where the constable was awaiting her. 
“ I’ve seen too many of them not to know 
the cut of their jibs, and he’s just 
knocked down flat. I shouldn’t wonder 
now, not a bit, if it made an idjut of him. 
He looks as if he’d had a blow on his 
head. I hope, I sartan do, the judge has 
good reason for’t. If he just done it care- 
less-like, then,” with a fervor born of her 
most solemn experiences, “may the Lord 
have mercy on his soul ! ” 

“Amen ! ” said the constable, whose un- 
usual frame of mind had made him sensi- 
tive. 

“ There’s a look about him,” went on 
Mrs. Dane, “ for all those awful scars, 
that’s like old Uncle Ben Durant; and, if 
there ever was a saint upon arth, he was. 
Why shouldn’t the blessin’ as well as the 
cursin’ come to the generations? It says 
the third and fourth; and this is in the 
limits, it’s only the fourth.” 


Paul's Angel. 


77 


She might as well have been talking 
Dutch to the constable for all that he un- 
derstood her ; but he managed to say : — 

“ There’s the little girl now, out in the 
flower-garden ; and, if you could spare 
her a few for that poor mother, it might 
be a kind of flower mission we read about 
in the papers.” 

Mrs. Dane’s heart had grown wonder- 
fully tender since she had seen Paul. 
Even his mother shared a little in its soft- 
ening. She followed the constable out 
into the garden, and there, almost hidden 
as she stooped, was the little cripple. 

What an innocent, sweet face it was 
that looked up into Mrs. Dane’s with a 
smile ! 

“ Bless the poor leetle creetur ! ” she 
said, under her breath: “she shall have 
all the posies she wants.” 

So she gathered as many as Ruth’s puny 
hands would hold, then lifted her carefully 
into the wagon, while Mr. Griffin was un- 
tying his horse. 


78 Paul's Angel. 

“Now call Paul!” said the pleased 
child. 

“Paul! Paul!” repeated the embar- 
rassed woman. “ He’s going to stay with 
me to-night. I want him ; but he sends 
you a kiss and his good-night,” bending 
over to kiss the child. 

O Mrs. Dane, Mrs. Dane ! But, if ever 
a kind falsehood can be forgiven, surely 
yours will be to-night. 

Ruth was only half satisfied; but the 
constable left her no time for question. 
He drove away, talking busily that she 
might not ask them. 

When the wagon stopped before Mrs. 
Douglas’ door, it seemed as if there was a 
party in the house, so many of the kind 
neighbors had dropped in to see and com- 
fort her. 

This is a beautifully kind world, God’s 
world, is it not? 

Perhaps it may be wondered at that, 
under these circumstances, when Mrs. 
Dane came in with Paul’s supper, he 


Pauls Angel. 79 

should have sat down by the little table 
she had prepared for him, and eaten 
heartily ; but he did. It must be remem- 
bered that he was at the end of a hard 
day’s work, and had been through great 
excitement since without food. Whether 
he even stopped for the blessing Mrs. 
Dane recommended is doubtful ; but, not 
discouraged, she left him with these 
words : — 

44 Now read your Bible and say your 
prayers. God is ready and willing to for- 
give you, and, though your sins are as 
scarlet, they shall be made white as wool, 
which Uncle Ben's never were. Good- 
night to you.” 

Paul heard the key turn again in the 
lock, and began dimly to realize that he 
was a prisoner. 


y. 


OURT had been in session nearly a 



week before the time could be found 
for Paul’s trial. 

These days had passed heavily and 
anxiously for him. No one had been 
allowed to see him but the lawyer who 
was to plead his cause. 

Fortunately for Paul, he was a young, 
sensitive man, with a heart as well as a 
head, adroit in examining, clear and concise 
both in forming and expressing an opinion, 
and eager to save him, if he could. 

He never asked Paul whether he was or 
was not guilty, but he led him, after a 
time, when he won the boy’s confidence 
by his gentle sympathy, to talk freely of 
his past life, of his father, his mother, and 
little Ruth, of what he had done, and what 
he meant to do in the future ; for he never 


Paul's Angel. 81 

spoke of any future but one at his own 
disposal. Indeed, the lawyer often won- 
dered if he had any knowledge of the 
punishment of his crime, should he be 
proved guilty. 

Carefully he came to the night of the 
fire, and drew from Paul only a confused 
account of what he had been doing after 
he left his mother’s house to seek the work 
in Drayton. It might have been that the 
confusion, hurry, and suffering of the 
evening had partly obscured from Paul’s 
mind his own connection with it : at any 
rate, it was a garbled story he told, never 
twice in the same way. 

The lawyer was foiled. In his own 
mind, before drawing up his arguments 
in Paul’s defence, he wanted the question 
of guilt settled. If he was innocent, he 
should go into court strong for the right. 
A firm believer he in the adage that truth 
is mighty, and must prevail. So far, how- 
ever, he could not settle it to his satisfac- 
tion; and with a troubled mind he saw 


82 


Paul's Angel. 

the day dawn on which Paul was to be 
tried. 

Mrs. Dane also was equally at a loss 
what to think. Less adroit than the law- 
yer, yet more determined, she had plied 
him with open and covert questions, all 
to no avail ; and she settled down at last 
into the conviction that her first impression 
was the correct one, and the greatest 
danger for Paul was, as she said, that of 
becoming “an idjut.” 

“ If he didn’t do it,” she would say, day 
after day, to her patient husband, “why 
don’t he say so ? It looks, — I don’t dare 
to think how.” 

“ As if he’d done it ! ” her husband 
would never fail to answer. 

“There’s where you don’t show a mite 
of sense, Nat Dane,” she would scream, 
exasperated. “ He don’t take it in, or he’s 
a mite of Uncle Ben about him that won’t 
let him open his lips at an unjust charge. 
Why, once Uncle Ben ” — 

“ Don’t ye now, Betsy, don’t ye,” inter- 


83 


Paul's Angel. 

rupted Nat Dane. “ I’ve hearn ye tell 
that nigh on to a hundred times, till I’m 
tired ’most to death on’t.” 

“Well, then, can you listen while I tell 
you Paul Douglas is an innocent boy, and 
it’s shameful, this prisoning of him? I’ve 
been here ten year or more, and I ought 
to know what’s what and who’s who ! ” 

“You’d oughter, Betsy, that’s plain 
enough; but you don’t allers, that’s just 
as plain. Why, there was Pete Allan, — 
you stuck to it” — 

“ That ain’t to the pint, Nat Dane. 
Pete Allan was one person, and Paul 
Douglas is another.” 

“ That stands to reason, Betsy.” Then 
the much bearing husband would walk 
slowly away. 

This singular state of apathy into which 
Paul had fallen probably saved him. He 
opened and shut the covers of the books 
Judge Tilton had provided for him with- 
out reading a word of their contents. A 
large pile of the Youth's Companion would 


8 4 


Paul's Angel. 


attract him now and then, and he would 
read a short story; but it is doubtful 
whether at its end he could have told a 
word of what it was about. He never 
asked either for his mother or Ruth, but 
sat hour after hour, close up to the win- 
dow, his head leaning against the bars as 
he looked out listlessly upon the glowing 
summer world around him. 

He knew the note of every bird that 
lighted on his large maple-tree. A robin 
had built her nest in a notch where he 
could look down into it, and had already 
hatched three little birds. 

To watch them became to him a source 
of dull interest. The slender brown beaks 
opening and shutting, as if they had been 
born to the coveted gift of perpetual 
motion, their chirps of delight when the 
mother bird came back to them with food 
in her beak and love in her round eyes, 
the contentment with which they crowded 
for shelter and rest under her outspread 
wings, were balm to him. But, after all, 


Paul's Angel. 85 

a long, wearisome, dismal time this con- 
finement had been. 

On the morning of the trial, Mrs. Dane 
waked him at an unusually early hour. 

“ Now, Paul Douglas,” she said, giving 
him an excited shake, “wake up a little, 
can’t ye, and listen to me ? You’re to go 
into court to-day for your trial, and you’ve 
got to look and behave your very best. 

“ Don’t stare at me so, but listen. Here 
are your best clothes to put on. I’ve 
brushed every mite of dust out of them. 
And here’s the shirt and collar your 
mother sent along with them. She might 
have put some more starch into them, 
they’re too limpsy; but there now, only 
see. Well, Paul, you put ’em all on, and 
don’t yer look at the ironing. She never 
was a master hand at anything, your 
mother wasn’t. 

“Now see here, Paul, when you’re all 
ready, and have had your breakfast, the 
constable — that’s Mr. Griffin that brought 
you in here — will come to bring you out. 


86 


Paul' s Angel. 


When you git there, there’ll he a room 
full of folks ; but don’t you mind nothing 
about them. You’ll be led right up to the 
stand, and, when they tell you to rise up, 
rise up at once. Then you’ll be asked, 
‘Guilty, or not guilty?’ Now, Paul 
Douglas, listen to me ! A lie won’t do 
you a mite of good; and God, with his 
big book wide open, will be looking right 
down into your face and eyes. I know 
you’re awful burned, but he knows how 
you got it; and, if you’re not guilty, he 
won’t care a mite about it. But, if you 
are, — well, Paul, that’s another thing. 
But, as I was a-saying, don’t you tell no 
lie, noway, but say right out, if it’s true, — 
and — and I hope it is, — not guilty, and 
may he help you, you poor boy,” she said, 
breaking down utterly, and wiping her 
eyes with her brown apron. 

“Not guilty ,” repeated Paul, looking 
steadily but vacantly at her. 

“ Then sa}^ so,” she answered ; and, with 
a gleam of joy shining through her tears, 
she went hastily out. 


Paul's Angel. 


87 


Paul dressed himself carefully, as he 
had been told to do, ate his breakfast, and, 
partly roused by her words, made his first 
really intelligent effort to understand his 
situation. 

With the bare facts of the case he was, 
of course, familiar ; but the reason that 
had caused his arrest, the discoveries that 
had led to it, he, in truth, even if guilty, 
knew nothing. 

At the appointed time the constable 
made his appearance. 

“How be ye, Paul?” he said in a 
would-be jocular manner. 44 I brought 
you in here, and it’s only fair I should 
take you out. I hope you won’t never see 
the inside of these walls again ; but, there 
now, there’s no telling. Say,” shutting 
the door behind him and coming up close 
to Paul, “you don’t mind telling me. I’m 
an old friend, and Ben, my son, says, 
4 Father,’ says he, 4 you make him tell ’fore 
you take him into the court-room. Paul 
can’t lie, he can’t, and what he says is so, 


88 


Paul's Angel ’ 


lawyer or no lawyer, court or no court, 
judge and jury or no judge and jury. I 
don’t care a copper what the sentence is. 
What that Paul Douglas says is so , and 
you bet your eyes on’t.’ So, Paul, my boy, 
I am going to believe you ; and, if you say 
guilty, Sam Griffin, constable or no con- 
stable, never will let on to any human 
being; and, if you say not guilty, — O 
Paul, say, can’t you say not guilty ? ” 

He looked kindly at Paul as he spoke, 
a discernible color mounting into his red 
face and moisture into his eyes. 

Paul saw both, and answered, “Not 
guilty , Mr. Griffin ! ” 

“Not guilty,” repeated the constable. 
“That’s right. I believe you, boy, and 
I’m terrible glad of it.” 

Then Paul followed him down the stairs 
and out once more into the free air. He 
stretched himself as a sick and weary man 
might on finding himself suddenly relieved 
from pain. 

There was the broad, blue sky over his 


Pan Vs Angel. 89 

head, — so broad, so blue, — the fresh June 
grass under his feet, — the living green, — 
flowers by the broad wayside leading to 
the court-house. Paul saw them all, and, 
stooping down, gathered a few as they 
passed them. These he held uncon- 
sciously in his hand to the end of his 
trial. 

The court-room was crowded. Men, 
women, and children had waited there 
from an early hour. So deep a feeling of 
interest in any trial had not pervaded 
Carlton since that of Paul’s father. 

When he. came in, walking by the side 
of the constable, there was a perceptible 
movement through the room. Was that 
boy with that changed face Paul? Every 
scar upon it pleaded for him in the hearts 
of those that saw him. Burned in that 
fire where he saved Judge Tilton’s horse 
so bravely, and yet guilty of kindling that 
fire ? The very suspicion was an outrage 
on all that was noble or grateful. If the 
verdict of that crowd could have been 


9 o 


Paul's Angel. 


taken and accepted, Paul would have gone 
on the instant free. 

All the opening ceremonies of the court 
passed unnoticed by him until he was told 
to rise and answer to the indictment made 
out against him. 

After this was read, he heard the words, 
“Paul Camden Douglas, are you or are 
you not guilty of this crime laid to your 
charge ? ” 

There was a moment’s oppressive si- 
lence, and then there rang out through 
the hushed court-room, in a boy’s shrill 
voice, — 

“Not guilty .” 

Now one boy’s voice — it was Ben’s, 
the constable’s son — cried out, fearless of 
court or judge, — 

“ Hurrah for the boy who never lied ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ” shouted boy after 
boy, until even men’s and women’s voices 
joined in the shout. 

A pleased smile passed over Judge Til- 
ton’s face as he hastened to call the court 


Paul's Angel. 


9i 


to order; but Paul, not in the least com- 
prehending what it meant, caught hold, in 
a frightened way, of the top of the seat 
before him, and stared wildly around him. 

As soon as it was still the trial pro- 
ceeded. The proofs of Paul’s guilt were 
quickly but strongly put, — his father’s 
crime, and the Bible declaration that the 
sins of the fathers shall be visited upon 
the children; his mother’s cherished 
hatred toward the judge, and her often 
expressed wish that some time God would 
punish him for his cruelty ; the effect of 
such an education upon an impressionable 
boy. 

This boy had grown to be fourteen 
years old, nurtured on revenge, and capa- 
ble now not only of making some plan, 
but also of executing it. The proof that 
he had carried it out was, first, the finding 
of parts of a trail of carefully laid bits of 
wood behind the barn, the wood still re- 
taining the smell of kerosene oil with 
which it had been saturated ; finding the 


92 Paul's Angel. 

can which had held the oil hidden in a 
bush close to the head of the trail, in- 
scribed upon it (now holding up the can 
and reading the letters from it on the 
bottom) “ P. C. D.,” — Paul Camden 
Douglas. As if to make the proof more 
certain, here, upon the handle, is found 
the whole name, “ Douglas.” On the 
night of the fire the boy left home right 
after his supper, not returning, according 
to his own mother’s testimony, until after 
the fire. 

A boy’s voice shouting fire had waked 
Judge Tilton ; a boy had been seen to pass 
a house, enter the church, and at once the 
bell rung for fire. As soon as the bell had 
ceased, that same boy had passed the same 
house, and a woman, looking from the 
window, had recognized the boy both 
times as Paul Douglas. 

All this was set forth graphically, elo- 
quently, by the prosecuting lawyer. Then 
he turned to what he said was the only 
argument that could be used in favor of 


Paul's Angel. 


93 


Paul. It would be asked, Why, why 
should a boy, driven by his desire for re- 
venge, save the life of the horse belonging 
to the man who was the object of his 
hatred ? Simply because no one, not even 
an incendiary, ever has been, or ever can 
be, all evil ; and the one redeeming trait 
in this boy’s character was his love of a 
horse. Not the owner, but the animal, 
must be spared suffering. There were 
many such cases on record, as he need not 
remind the learned judge. 

When he sat down, Ben’s — irreverent 
Ben — voice was heard again, — 

“It’s a confounded pack of lies, every 
word of it!” But Ben was immediately 
hurled out of the court-house by his 
frightened father, one big boy, Sam Kirby, 
following him. 

After a short interval, the lawyer en- 
gaged to defend Paul took his place. 

“ It is only necessary,” he said, pointing 
to Paul who had risen at the end of the 
first speech, and was holding tight on to 


94 


Paul's Angel. 


the seat before him, “for me to point to 
this young man, with his poor, pale, 
scarred face, to command the entire sym- 
pathy of the court [a movement in the 
crowded room, such as only comes in times 
of intense interest] ; but, I am glad to say, 
his innocence is as clear as daylight, and 
does not require any such aid to impress 
itself upon the jury. 

“ This is the boy whose one redeeming 
trait, the sole reason for an act of bravery 
of which not a man among us but might 
have been proud of, was that he couldn't 
help it [a stamping over the house from 
many feet]. Very well, I grant it, he 
couldn't help it. He isn’t the boy to stand 
by and see suffering without perilling his 
life to relieve it. This same boy set a fire 
which imperilled the lives of many ani- 
mals and of men, women, and children? 

“ But, to the more substantial proofs of 
his innocence, we are told that the fire 
was kindled by a trail of small wooden 
chips saturated with kerosene oil, and that 


Paul's Angel. 


95 


a can has been found at the spot where 
the trail started, with the initials 4 P. C. D.’ 
on the bottom, the name 4 Douglas ’ on the 
handle. 

‘‘That is Mrs. Douglas’ kerosene can; 
the work upon it was done by her little 
crippled girl. I carried the can to her 
mother’s house. She recognized it at 
once, showed me with great delight her 
work upon it, then told me how she had 
carried it to a hazel-nut bush, where she 
could put her own initials upon it, and 
had left it there because her mother called 
her. When she sought it again, it was 
nowhere to be seen. With Paul to help 
her, she had looked for it in vain every- 
where. 

“We went together to the hazel-nut 
bush. Stirring the grass around it with 
my foot, I turned up this knife [holding 
up an old jacknife] with these initials, 
k S. K.’ I propose to find the owner of 
these initials before we condemn Paul 
Douglas ! 


96 


P aid's Angel. 


“I think of far more importance is the 
boy’s unaccounted-for absence — an un- 
usual event I learn — from home on the 
night of the fire. For reasons best known 
to myself, I have refrained from question- 
ing him about it until now. With the 
leave of the court, I will proceed to do 
so.” 

The judge signified his assent, and the 
lawyer, turning to Paul, said blandly, — 
“ Paul, will you tell me the name of 
the man to whom you went for work on 
the night of the fire ? ” 

“ Phineas Stowe, over in Dighton,” said 
Paul, without a moment’s hesitation. 

There was a movement among the 
crowd, and a big, brown man, with a kind 
face, made his way in front. 

“I am Phineas Stowe, and I live in 
Dighton,” he said. “I had a job to be 
done by a boy on the night of the fire. 
When I was in Carlton, I inquired for one 
at the post-office. Paul applied to me on 
that night, but it was too late.” 


Paul's Angel. 


97 


“Did you hear Mr. Stowe’s request?” 
the lawyer asked Paul. 

“No, sir. Mike Burns told me of it.” 

“ Does any one here know Mike 
Burns?” asked the lawyer. 

“ Be jabbers, I think I ought to, if any 
one does,” said an Irishman, starting up 
from a front seat. 

“Who are you?” asked the lawyer. 

“ Who but Mike Burns himself.” 

“ Then, Mike Burns, step up and be 
sworn in.” 

This Mike did unwillingly. 

“Now remember, you are to speak the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth.” 

“ Yes, your honor. I told Paul myself, 
and a finer lad you’ll not find anywhere, 
not a bit of it. Says I, ‘Paul, Phineas 
Stowe is no end good to pay. There’s a 
job there to-morrow evenin’ : run for’t,’ — 
and run he did.” 

“ Satisfactory,” said the pleased lawyer, 
as he dismissed the witness. 


98 Paul's Angel. 

“ Now, with regard to the boy who rang 
the bell. A sick woman sees through an 
open window, by the light of a lantern, a 
boy whom she supposes to be Paul Doug- 
las. The bell rings for fire after he passes, 
and stops just before he repasses. Did 
she see him enter the church? Did she 
see his hand upon the bell ? In short, have 
you any really reliable evidence that a boy 
rang the bell, that, if one did, it was Paul 
Douglas, and, even if it could be proved 
that it was Paul, does that prove that he 
set fire to Judge Tilton’s barn? 

“ The evidence is surely too weak to 
need another word. 

“ As to the boy’s voice that waked 
Judge Tilton, — with all due respect allow 
me to say it, — I suppose we all that own 
boys have heard them many times in the 
night, without their having set fire to our 
barns.” 

A laugh in court, which was silenced at 
once. 

“ I dismiss all these arguments without 


Paul's Angel. 


99 


further debate. If those which my honor- 
able opponent hints he has further at his 
command are only of equal weight, surely 
we need not detain the court any longer 
to listen to them. 

“ I throw myself upon the good sense of 
the jury for the immediate and honorable 
release of my client.” 

The judge summed up the evidence for 
and against the prisoner in a few words. 
The jury retired, but were gone but a 
short time, when they returned, bringing 
in the verdict of guilty. 

Judge Tilton then said, “The prisoner 
at the bar will rise.” 

Paul stood up, and looked him straight 
in the face. 

“Paul Douglas,” said the judge, in a 
voice which shook slightly, “in accord- 
ance with the verdict of the jury, I pro- 
ceed to pronounce your sentence, and I 
must say it is one of the most painful 
duties of my life. 

“ I remand you to your prison for three 


IOO 


Paul's Angel. 


weeks longer, and then, if there does not 
appear in the mean time reason for a con- 
trary decision, to the House of Reforma- 
tion for the next five years. 

“ The court will adjourn.” 

There were hisses from among the eager, 
swaying crowd as the judge closed ; but 
Paul did not hear them. All he knew 
was that the constable laid his hand kindly 
on his shoulder, and said, — 

“ Come, poor boy, come.” 


VI. 


EVER was the town of Carlton in 



^ a state of greater excitement than 
during the evening following Paul’s trial. 
No one was willing to believe him guilty, 
yet there were many to be found who 
thought, with the jury, that the evidence 
against him was very damaging. 

If Judge Tilton had evaded right and 
justice, as we know he was tempted to do, 
he could scarcely have been more unpopu- 
lar. Hard remarks were made as to the 
unfairness of the trial, the length of the 
sentence, and the personal influence of the 
judge- Pity, even for an offender, does 
not always leave the judgment fair play. 

Paul’s character was thoroughly dis- 
cussed, with an obvious leaning toward 
charity. Evidences of his remarkable 
truthfulness flowed in now from every 


102 


Paul's Angel. 


side. Boys were full of stories of his hon- 
esty and honor in their games, when he 
could be induced to play with them. 
Men told of his faithfulness in the work 
they hired him to do, and women and 
little girls recalled kind words and oblig- 
ing acts, many of them so exaggerated in 
Paul’s favor that it is doubtful whether he 
would have recognized himself as the hero 
of half of them. 

One of those tides which so often start 
in favor of a convicted criminal had evi- 
dently started for Paul ; and the refrain 
of every fresh wave as it swept in was: 
Paul pleaded not guilty ” ; and when and 
where was he ever known before to say 
what was not true ! 

“ If he’d do-do-done it,” said Ben Home, 
the stammering bully of the village, “ he-e- 
e-’d ’ave said so ; for I licked him once 
into an inch of his life to make him 1-i-i-e, 
and I co-o-o-ou-ld-n’t.” 

A general laugh followed this confes- 
sion ; but there sank into many young 


Paul's Angel. 


103 


hearts that heard it a conviction, height- 
ened by the circumstances, that, after all, 
it really did pay to speak the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
It was a good, strong staff, always ready 
to be leaned upon at all times and in all 
places. 

Paul, sitting heart-broken in his little 
room in the county jail, with all his future 
hopes suddenly blotted out, nothing be- 
fore him but five years in a penitentiary 
and a life of disgrace, was sending out 
over the whole community an influence in 
favor of one of the noblest and, sad to say, 
the rarest of all virtues. 

Mrs. Dane had gone to the court-house 
to listen to Paul’s trial, fully convinced of 
his innocence, but not sure that he had 
mind enough left to assert it. 

She was much relieved when she heard 
his clear and unfaltering “ Not guilty,” 
and, if staggered at times by the amount 
and character of the evidence against him, 
she did not yield an iota of her confidence 


1 04 Paul ' s A ngel. 

in his innocence. She was, therefore, not 
only disappointed in the verdict, but was 
filled with such righteous indignation 
toward the judge, who had a second time 
blighted the family life, that, had a tithe 
of her feeling been spoken, it might have 
cost her place. 

When he was brought back, she met him 
at the door with a forced smile, a very 
red face, and an unwilling nod towards 
the stairs he was to ascend. He went 
up slowly, with his head dropped between 
his shoulders. 

“ Crushed to the ground,” said Mrs. 
Dane to herself, as she followed him, “ an 
idjut for the rest of his life ; but God will 
see to’t, and that judge won’t get off scot 
clear.” 

When Paul entered his room, it struck 
him that he had been away from it a long 
time. Everything had that familiar but 
changed look that comes to us often when 
great events have filled the time of our 
absence. He felt surprised to see things 


105 


Paul's Angel. 

where he had left them, — his hair-brush 
on the table under the glass, his Bible, 
with the book-mark in it, half open to a 
page Mrs. Dane had designed him to read 
before he went to the court-house, hoping 
he would derive both comfort and strength 
from it. There was, too, a bunch of with- 
ered violets Ruth had sent him. The first 
thing he did was to lift them carefully and 
put them in a small china vase Mrs. Dane 
had brought him. Then he turned water 
into the vase, put it on the table, folded 
his hands, and stood looking at it. Mrs. 
Dane stood with her hands folded, too, 
watching him. Suddenly he turned upon 
her, and asked, — 

“ Mrs. Dane, am I guilty ? ” 

“ Bless your heart, boy, no, no, no ! 
Don’t you know,” looking at him anx- 
iously, “ whether you did it or not ? ” she 
answered. 

“ I don’t know,” said Paul, with a slow, 
uncertain motion of his head. “ They say 
I did do it.” 


106 Paul's Angel 

“Don’t know? Don’t talk like a fool, 
Paul! What do you mean?” 

“If I was asleep,” said Paul, slowly, 
looking straight at her. 

“Asleep? Be you gone crazy? Do 
boys set fire to barns in their sleep ? 
What are you talking about ? ” 

“I might have. They said so. Don’t 
sleep-walkers sometimes do strange things 
in their sleep ? ” 

“See here, Paul Douglas,” and now 
Mrs. Dane was thoroughly frightened, 
“do you mean to tell me, me, Betsy Ann 
Dane, that you don’t know whether you 
set fire to that barn or not? ” 

“ I don’t know,” repeated Paul, help- 
lessly. 

“Then you lied when you said ‘not 
guilty.’” 

Paul started at this, the deep red of his 
burns deepening in hue ; but, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, he said : — 

“ I thought I didn’t, but I don’t know. 
They said ‘ guilty.’ ” 


Paul's Angel. to 7 

“ The good Lord have mercy on you, 
boy! Are you losing your mind?” 

“ Am I ? ” asked Paul. “ Perhaps that’s 
the reason I don’t know.” 

Not another word spoke Mrs. Dane. 
She hurried from the room, down the 
stairs, and out to a large wood-pile where 
her husband was very deliberately sawing 
sticks. 

“Nat,” she said, “Paul Douglas has 
gone crazy ! ” 

“Eh?” said the jailer, stopping his saw 
midway between the stick. 

“Paul’s gone crazy ! ” she repeated, with 
an emphasis he could no longer doubt; 
“ and, instead of staring at me there, you’d 
better be off for Judge Tilton, and tell 
him. I guess he’s got enough of it now, 
the more shame to him ! ” 

“Now, Betsy,” began her husband, tak- 
ing out the saw and drawing his fingers 
deliberately over its dull edge, then stand- 
ing it slowly down by his saw-horse, 
“ don’t be ha’sh nor hasty. You’re a 


io8 Paul's Angel. 

master hand at it. The boy’s no more 
crazy than you be. You can’t come any 
of these insane dodges over me.” 

“Little you know about it. Are you, 
Nat Dane, going after the judge, or will 
you go in and give the men their victuals 
and let me go ? ” 

“Nary one nor t’other,” said the man, 
coolly. “ He’s no more crazy than you be, 
but I’ll come in.” 

While this conversation was going on 
out of doors, Paul had seated himself in 
his accustomed seat by the window, and 
was looking out. Down close to the fence 
on the opposite side of the street he saw a 
boy skulking around, who kept looking at 
the jail, as if hunting for some one. Pres- 
ently he seemed to catch sight of Paul, 
made a signal, and quickly disappeared. 

This boy, Paul knew, was Sam Kirby. 
Years ago Paul had saved his life by dash- 
ing into a pond after him, and pulling him, 
more dead than alive, safe to land. 

For a little time this had made quite an 


Paul's Angel. 


109 


impression in Carlton ; but it is too com- 
mon an occurrence among boys to be re- 
membered long. Paul never thought of 
it unless he saw Sam. Then he recalled 
how heavy he was, and how hard he found 
it to make his way to shore. 

Sam was a good-for-nothing boy, with a 
life scantily worth saving ; but, somehow, 
he seemed never to have forgotten what 
Paul did for him, if every one else had. 
He would do him many a little kindness, 
and never met him without a pleasant 
word. So Paul was not surprised to see 
him to-night. “He don’t forget me,” he 
thought, “if I am guilty, and everybody 
else does.” 

All through the long twilight that fol- 
lowed, Paul still sat by his window, look- 
ing out. Whatever apathy had possessed 
him, it was all gone now. He was grad- 
ually coming to a full appreciation of his 
situation ; but, the more he thought of it, 
the less light with regard to its happening 
dawned upon him. 


no Paul's Angel. 

He became utterly bewildered over the 
evidence against him. What could it all 
mean ? 

The kerosene can he knew was his 
mother’s. He could recall with perfect 
distinctness his futile hunt with Ruth 
after it, and her disappointment when she 
found it was lost. He had never carried 
it to Judge Tilton’s barn. Who had? 
The sorry walk home from Dighton, when 
his heart was so heavy it made every mile 
two, he travelled over again. 

He could recall, he thought, that he was 
opposite Dan Flint’s saw-mill, when he 
saw the long pointed flame dart up into 
the sky, and wondered if it was lightning 
from the rumbling thunder cloud. The 
first stroke of the alarm bell, — did he ring 
it? How could he have done so, when he 
went straight to the fire? He could see 
the fire bursting through so many different 
places in the roof as he came nearer, and 
he heard, as he got into the crowd, people 
saying, “Judge Tilton would lose Billy, 


Paul's Angel. iii 

for a horse never could be made to face a 
fire ! ” 

Then he was in the midst of the fire. 
How it crackled, and how ghastly Judge 
Tilton's face looked with the red light on 
it! There stood Billy, four feet firmly 
planted, shaking like a leaf and snorting 
loudly. How the fire came to him when 
he was on Billy’s back, and Billy would 
not move ; and how, at last, he sprang and 
rushed out of the barn. 

He thought he could hear, too, the 
shout of the crowd as they cheered him ; 
and how the burns smarted so he forgot 
everything but those and home and his 
mother ! 

Which was Paul Douglas? This boy 
or the one they said had set fire to the 
barn? Of the weeks of suffering which 
had followed he had no doubt. Those 
were long days at home, when his mother 
was devoted* to him, and he seemed to 
have learned almost for the first time 
what a true mother she was. 


1 12 Paul's Angel. 

Suddenly, in that dim twilight, home 
came up before him as it had not since his 
confinement. He heard the sound of 
Ruth’s crutch as she followed him every- 
where, and another sound that he loved so 
dearly. He had not shed a single tear 
before, since he had been in prison ; but 
to-night, big boy as he was, they kept 
rushing to his eyes and streaming down 
his cheeks. He brushed them away in- 
dignantly : they couldn’t bring back to 
him his liberty, his mother, or dear little 
Ruth. What could? Were they really 
gone, — gone so he could never have them 
again ? 

Mrs. Dane had brought her husband, 
most unwillingly on his part, to the door 
of Paul’s room. She gave him whispered 
directions to make no noise, but peep in, 
while she entered to see what Paul’s con- 
dition was then. 

She was much surprised to find him sit- 
ting quietly by the window, and she was 
not slow in seeing a change had come over 


Paul's Angel. 1 1 3 

him. He turned his head toward her as 
she came in, and asked, — 

“ Can I see my mother and Ruth before 
I go, Mrs. Dane ? ” 

“ Bless your heart, yes ; and them all, 
if you want to. There wasn’t any order 
given for solitary confinement that I 
heard. It was only before the trial. See 
them ? Of course, you can : I’ll bring 
them to-morrow. And now, Paul [in a 
coaxing tone], go to bed like a good boy, 
and ask the Lord, who is allers ready and 
willin’, to give you a lift. He can set the 
prisoner free any time. Don’t you remem- 
ber about the angel that came to Peter in 
prison, and said unto him, — said some- 
thing about arising and girding himself 
and putting on his sandals, and then he 
followed the angel out, Peter did. 

“I don’t expect any angel’s a-coming 
for you, and you haven’t got nothing to 
gird on, and no sandals, nothing but some 
good, wearable shoes. Still, an angel can 
comfort you all the same, and I hope he 
will. So good-night to you.” 


1 14 Paul's Angel. 

“Good-night,” said Paul, quietly. And 
when the Danes had gone downstairs, Nat 
said to his wife : — 

“ Betsy, you be the most fidgety creetur 
I ever see. Paul ain’t no more crazy than 
you be, ner nigh so much.” 

To which Betsy only answered by a 
most significant grunt. 

It had been dark but a short time when 
Paul heard a whizzing sound, followed by 
a slight blow upon his knee. He put out 
his hand to feel a small package, with a 
string attached. 

With a boy’s instinct, he followed the 
string to the window, and, as he gave it a 
gentle pull, he felt it answered by a de- 
cided one from below. 

At once the thought flashed upon him 
that here was some one trying to commu- 
nicate with him. He drew the package to 
him, and carefully opened it. The first 
thing he felt was a bunch of matches. He 
struck one, and by its light he saw a piece 
of paper tied around a little bundle. In 


Paul's Angel. 115 

the note he read, by striking one match 
after another : — 

“I send yon a sawr — it is sharp sawr 
oph yure 2 bare. I will send a roap up 
the sam wa’ when the bare is sawd ty rop 
to bed post, ketch hold, and slyde down. 
I’ll kitch you, and we’ll run to the Injuns 
— I’m most riddy.” 

Paul struck one more match, read it 
again, then went to the window and 
looked out. It was as dark as a summer 
night with stars in the sky could well be, 
but opposite he was sure he saw a boy 
hugging the fence. Paul pulled the string 
again : no one was holding it, so he drew 
it in. 

“ It’s a kite line,” he said, as he came to 
the little nobs of paper which are tied to 
make the tail of a kite. “ I wonder who 
has sent this, and what it means ? ” 

He rolled it carefully up, and hid it 
deep in his coat pocket. Then he felt 
for the saw. It was one of those small, 
sharp saws which are bought for a few 


ii 6 Paul ’ j A ngel. 

cents, and are so much used by boys for 
delicate carving. Paul had once owned 
one, and knew with care it could be made 
to do good work. 

Here was hope for him ! To saw that 
bar, to drop down on the rope that was to 
be provided for him, to go home, see his 
mother and Ruth, if only for a few min- 
utes, and then to go away, — away any- 
where, even to the Indians, only so he 
could put a boundless distance between 
himself and Judge Tilton, the burned 
barn, and all these terrible accusations 
which had been heaped upon him. Was 
this the same angel that Mrs. Dane said 
had let Peter out of prison ? Had he come 
for his rescue also ? 

He went to bed, but he could not sleep. 
What all the shame and terror of his con- 
finement had failed to do this first glimpse 
of hope had done. He tossed about, 
planning and replanning ; now, with 
sharpened sense of hearing, listening for 
Mrs. Dane’s step coming toward his room 


Paul's Angel. 


1 7 


while he sawed the bar ; now striving to 
recall how Ruth had once taught him to 
tie a true sailor’s knot, that he might 
make his rope perfectly secure to his 
small iron bedpost; and now calculating 
the distance he must pass over, holding 
only on to the slowly yielding rope, before 
he reached the ground. 

Who was to be there awaiting him was 
the last thing of which he thought as he 
dropped into a troubled sleep, to wake 
with the daylight, and start up from his 
bed to assure himself it had not all been a 
deceitful dream ! 

It is safe to say to-day was the unhap- 
piest Paul had passed in what Mrs. Dane 
called “the county’s free tavern.” 

If he had burned Judge Tilton’s barn, 
he had no consciousness previous to his 
trial of guilt: indeed, he might have been 
said to be supported by a consciousness 
of innocence, which until now had been 
his constant companion. But this morn- 
ing, when Mrs. Dane brought him his 


1 1 8 Paul's Angel. 

breakfast, and looked at him in such a 
kind, sympathizing way, he had the note, 
the saw, and the long line hidden in his 
pocket. He could not meet her eye. To 
be sure, he had not come to any determi- 
nation with regard to their use ; but there 
they were, concealed, and concealment 
meant — what ? Paul shrank guiltily 
from any answer. 

When Mrs. Dane left him, he looked 
carefully around to see if he could con- 
trive any way of securing his door so no 
one could enter without giving him warn- 
ing. To put table or chair against it 
would be to induce inquiry at once. He 
was eager to examine his treasures, and 
find if they were all that they had seemed 
to him on the previous night. So, at last, 
he sat down on the floor, with his back 
to the door. Here he thought he could 
more readily hear a step on the stairs, and 
more quickly move away. 

They were all there, — the note, the 
string, the saw. He doubled up a bit of 


Paul's Angel. 


1 19 

paper, and tried the saw. It cut with 
zigzags, but it cut. Now, for a handle! 
If he asked Mrs. Dane for a bit of stick to 
whittle (he had his knife still), she would 
not refuse him ; but would she give it to 
him if she knew for what he wanted it ? 
Certainly not. Would or would it not 
be deceiving her ? Paul thought this over 
and over. He had more of blind instinct 
than of educated conscience ; but the in- 
stinct was in favor of what was true. De- 
ceit was no part of his make up, which is 
saying a great deal for any one. 

Throughout the day he had little time 
for any other thoughts than those which 
came in through this opening door, out of 
which he was to pass to his liberty. Free ! 
free ! Away from Carlton, J udge Tilton, 
and those dreadful accusations about the 
burned barn, — hopes filled his mind, filled 
and warmed his heart. He ceased to 
worry about his mother and Ruth. 
Once at liberty, with the whole world to 
choose from, he could easity make for 


120 P mil's Angel. 

them all a new home, it mattered little 
where, only so they were once more to- 
gether. 

He spent hours trying with his twine 
string to recall how to tie a sailor’s knot ; 
and, when at last he succeeded, his free- 
dom seemed secured. His happy face 
puzzled good Mrs. Dane when she brought 
him his dinner. Afraid he was to be an 
“idjut” when he looked dull and sad, 
now, when he had brightened, and even 
received her with a smile, she took to 
wondering if, after all, he mightn’t be 
guilty, and, now he was found out and to 
be punished whether or no, inclined to 
make light of it. She did not berate the 
judge the next time she saw her husband, 
over which act of forbearance he won- 
dered silently. 

That night Paul, trembling with excite- 
ment, seated himself again by the window. 
The air was full of soft summer lullabies, 
but he did not hear them. Peering through 
the long, dim twilight, he looked only for 


Paul's Angel. 


121 


a skulking form close beside the opposite 
fence, and listened only for a stealthy 
footstep outside his window. Old Grip, 
the jailer’s dog, nosing along with his 
great clumsy feet around that corner of 
the jail, sent his heart into his mouth a 
dozen times, a mouse nibbling in an adja- 
cent closet seemed like some one using 
his little saw. He rattled the bar at the 
window to make sure it was safe. How 
strong and firm it felt ! “ A prison bar,” 

Paul muttered to himself, as if he had for 
the first time realized where he was. 

It must have been late before he gave 
up his watch, but nothing came of it. 
Old Grip went to bed in his kennel near 
by Paul’s window, sending up to it a suc- 
cession of most deplorable groans and 
grunts, and even the mouse got tired of 
nibbling and cuddled down on Mrs. Dane’s 
best shawl for a nap. So did Paul on his 
little iron cot, disappointed enough. 

Four nights passed without any further 
communication from the outside world. 


122 Paul's Angel. 

Hope died out of Paul’s heart. Mrs. 
Dane’s confidence in his innocence came 
back to her with every downcast and 
despondent look on his face ; and Nat 
Dane had to listen again to a long list 
of Judge Tilton’s misdeeds. Once more 
Paul began to wonder if, in truth, he was 
not guilty, and the communication he had 
received was anything more than a plan 
contrived to test his honesty ; but on the 
fifth night another bundle fell at his feet. 
He undid it with trembling hands, and 
read on a bit of soiled paper : “ Most reddy 
’ave got 1 gun and a pystole. Kep up 
gode kurage. Me and U are goen to the 
Injuns. Have you sawd the bare? Rope 
nex tyme.” 

Paul’s heart did not bound with joy 
when he read this, as it had when he 
read the first one. Those days and 
nights that had passed between them had 
done a great and a good work for this 
poor boy, the result of which was quickly 
to be shown. 


VII. 



'PI REE weeks had at last crept 


slowly away, and with them the 
summer had passed from its June fresh- 
ness into a hot, parched July. 

The little birds, Paul’s constant com- 
panions, had flown away from their nest, 
leaving it empty and desolate. 

The leaves hung listless and thirsty on 
their drooping boughs. Dust filled the 
air. Dogs, with heads and tails down, 
panted along on the brown sidewalks. 

Men went in shirt-sleeves, and boys, 
barefooted and with torn straw hats, put 
far back on their hot heads, passed and 
repassed Paul’s window, always stopping 
and looking up to it ; and Paul, worn and 
weak from his long confinement, looked 
back at them with a dull envy at his 
heart. During this time he had fought 


24 


Paul's AngeL 


his life’s battle, and, thanks to the Father 
of the fatherless, he had come off con- 
queror. 

His mind was now made up. He would 
not make any effort to escape. The un- 
certainties which had clouded his thoughts 
since his trial had all cleared away. He 
knew himself to be innocent, but he knew, 
also, that he had no means of proving it. 
His lawyer had done his best, but to no 
avail; and the jury had condemned. He 
accepted the decision as a final one, and 
prepared himself with a wisdom born of 
his sufferings for what awaited him. There 
was one thing could not be taken from 
him if his freedom was, — his uprightness ; 
and to this poor, untrained boy it had been 
God’s greatest and best gift, — his angel, as 
sure to lead him safe as the one that came 
to Peter in his prison, and he confided in 
him as Peter in his heavenly visitor. Es- 
cape he would pot by any other means 
than his open prison doors. Somebody 
had trusted him, or he would have been 


25 


Paul ' s A 7i orel . i 

o 

behind the iron bars, glimpses of which he 
had from his window: he would be true 
and faithful to the trust. He would go to 
the House of Reformation if he must ; and, 
at the end of those dreadful five years, he 
would come back just long enough to take 
his mother and Ruth, and somewhere in 
all this great wide world they would find 
a home. 

On his last night in the county jail 
another bundle came in through the win- 
dow and fell at his feet. It was only two 
nails, with a string and paper attached, 
and on the paper was written the word 
“Pull.” 

Paul did pull until a long, stout rope 
lay coiled upon his floor. On the lower 
end was a card with “ Kum, all riddy,” 
written on it. But Paul had no intention 
of coming, and no other way of making 
this known but by returning the rope. 

He very well knew, as he put the end 
back through the bar and began to lower 
it, that with every inch of its shortening 


126 


Paul's Angel. 


went from him all hope of escape ; that it 
meant prison, disgrace, and untold suffer- 
ing. Surely his angel, his ministering 
angel, held his hand, and whispered into 
his fluttering, aching heart words of com- 
fort and of strength, as he resolutely 
pushed it away. 

It was nearly out of his hands when he 
heard the window below his open, and in 
a moment a man’s voice called, “ Betsy ! I 
say, Betsy ! Come here, quick ! ” 

Betsy was soon there, and Paul heard 
again, — 

“ Nat Dane, it beats all ! ” 

Then, in an incredibly short time, there 
were footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs. 
Dane, in nightcap and nightgown, came 
into the room. 

“ Paul Douglas ! ” she said, with a voice 
that trembled from her fright : “ where be 
you?” 

“ Here,” answered Paul, quietly. 

“ Here ! here ! ” repeated the woman. 
“ What, what does it mean ? ” 


27 


Paul's Angel. i 

Not a word spoke Paul in answer. He 
had what remained of the rope still in his 
hand, and stared at her through the dark- 
ness. 

“ Be you a-trying to escape, Paul ? ” 

As she asked this, she struck a match 
and glared at him in its dim light. 

“No,” said Paul, sturdily. 

“ No ! no! I don’t believe a word of it. 
Now you’ll catch it! Come with me. 
You’re to be locked up behind bars, iron 
bars and bolts, before you’re five minutes 
older. Here, sit down,” pushing him 
roughly into a chair. “ Now own up.” 

“ I’ve nothing to own,” said Paul. 

“No? So you said you hadn’t burned 
the barn: you know you set fire to it. 
You’re a hardened, wicked boy. Come 
right along. No, sit still. Don’t you dare 
to move an inch until I tell you to.” 

She went to the door, and screamed: 
“Nat! Nat Dane! Come here, quick!” 

She placed herself across the open door, 
both arms akimbo, as if she expected Paul 


128 


Paul's Angel. 


to make a sudden rush and escape, and 
stood there, while Nat Dane stumbled 
slowly over the dark stairs with an un- 
lighted lamp in his hands. 

“ There now, Betsy,” he said, as he 
reached their top, “ don’t fret yourself into 
a worry. He ain’t nothin’ but a boy that 
I can manage with my little finger. I 
allers told yer yer made too much on him : 
now I hope you’re convinced.” 

Taking the lamp his wife had lighted, 
he went to the window and burst into a 
loud laugh. 

“ Cur’us, now,” he said, “ expected to 
crawl through them bars, did you, Paul? ” 

“No,” said Paul. 

“No? no lies [angrily from Mrs. Dane]. 
What on ’arth, then, did you expect to 
do? Make a clean breast of it now, 
Paul,” with a touch of pity in her voice, 
as her eyes fell on his ghastly face. 

Whether it was this tone or the threat 
of the dreadful stay in the real jail among 
the real prisoners, it would be hard to say ; 


29 


Paul's Angel. 

but, in a moment, as if it was forced out 
of him by an invisible power, came the 
whole story of all but the battle and the 
victory. From his pocket he took the 
saw, the string, and what remained of 
the matches, with the almost illegible 
notes. 

The jailer held the light close to the 
bars, examining them carefully. Not a 
scratch made by the saw could he find 
upon any part of them. 

To doubt Paul’s words with these proofs 
before them was impossible. 

“You’re an honest fellar,” said the 
jailer, heartily, stretching out his big 
strong hand to take Paul’s trembling cold 
one; “but who is at t’other end of this 
rope?” 

He gave it a pull : it hung loose. 
“He’s off, anyway,” he said; “but them 
writings must be held safe.” So he gath- 
ered them up, with the saw, the string, the 
matches, and the rope, and with a friendly 
nod to Paul, and saying to his wife, 


130 


Paul's Angel . 


“ Come, Betsy, there ain’t no use in our 
sittin’ up any longer,” he went down. 

Mrs. Dane stood looking at Paul for a 
moment in silence, then she said: “You 
be like your great-uncle Ben now, arter 
all. Strange, ain’t it? And, Paul,” com- 
ing nearer him, and putting her hand with 
a touch of tenderness on his shoulder, “ I 
do now, as true as I’m a live woman, be- 
lieve you be innocent, let ’um say what 
they will, and I’m — I’m kind of proud 
of you, arter all. Good-night, you’ve 
done well.” 

So it was over ! Paul, tired out, fell 
upon his bed, covered his face with both 
hands as if there was something dreadful 
which he must shut out, and in spite of all 
was soon sound asleep. 

But Mrs. Dane could not sleep : night- 
gown and nightcap carefully laid aside, 
she hastily dressed herself, and, telling 
her husband who was too sleepy to care 
what she did that she was going to see if 
it was all right, she cautiously opened a 
side door and went out. 


Paul's Angel. 


131 

The stars were bright in the far-off sky, 
and a cool night breeze swept gently over 
the despairing earth. It was still, so still 
that, as she stood listening, she could hear 
the sighing of the leaves, the sleepy dron- 
ing of wilted insects, moving wearily in 
their dreams, the breathing of old Jack in 
his kennel, and Mose Brown, the last im- 
prisoned burglar, swearing in his cell at 
the heat that would not let him sleep and 
forget ; but she heard another sound 
which made her creep with stealthy steps 
toward a large, empty water-barrel that 
stood thirsting under the dry pipe running 
from the parched roof. Catching up a 
small flat board that happened to be at her 
feet, she stole up to the barrel, and in an 
instant had dropped it over its coverless 
head, holding it down with both hands. 
Then a tug at it from within, a “No, you 
don’t” from without, and a sharp, sudden 
conflict, during which the barrel rolled 
over, a tall boy rolled out, and, leaving 
nothing but his cap and a handful of hair, 
escaped. 


132 


Paul's Angel. 

Mrs. Dane stood looking at both, with 
a discomfited face. She was fleshy, and 
very tired after the struggle ; perplexed, 
too, not knowing what to do next. Not 
a doubt had she that the boy was the 
accomplice, if Paul could have been said 
to have had one ; but why should he want 
to set Paul at libert}* ? what was it to him 
whether Paul was sent to the penitentiary 
or not? 

A subtle connection which she could 
not quite discover, but was sure existed, 
made her feel that at once she must put 
her clews into other hands. “Nat’s no 
good,” she said to herself, “let alone his 
being sound asleep by this time. I’ll go at 
once to Judge Tilton. Like as not he 
won’t want to be waked up. Serve him 
right, anyway.” 

So, really delighted not only with the 
clew she was to carry to him, but with the 
small revenge for what she felt more de- 
cidedly than ever had been the injustice 
done to Paul, she went at once to the 


133 


Paul's Angel. 

judge’s house, and gave the door-bell such 
an unceremonious, demanding pull as 
surely it had never received before. 

Judge Tilton awoke with a start. His 
first thought was of fire. But no light 
glared into his room as it had on the night 
his barn was burned, so he rose, and an- 
swered the bell by appearing at the hall 
window. 

“What’s wanted?” he asked. 

“You,” said Mrs. Dane’s voice, in a tri- 
umphant tone. The alarm in the judge’s 
voice did her good as a medicine. 

“What for?” 

“ Come down, and I’ll tell you. You 
ain’t afraid now, jedge, be ye ? I’m only 
a woman.” 

This reassuring fact the judge had al- 
ready made himself possessed of, so, in a 
few moments, the door was opened, and 
Mrs. Dane found herself alone with him 
in the parlor. 

After all, it was a very pleasant story to 
tell. If Uncle Ben’s ghost had been pres- 


134 


Paul's Angel. 


ent in the room, it must have been proud 
of the noble traits which were then told 
of his remote descendant, Mrs. Dane 
growing really eloquent as she talked ; 
and she found a thoughtful listener. 

Judge Tilton had been pained and 
troubled, as we well know, by this whole 
case. Nor, as the weeks allotted for the 
reprieve had passed without bringing any 
hope with them, had he grown less inter- 
ested. He, too, saw a clew worth follow- 
ing, and Mrs. Dane felt her hard heart 
softening a little toward him at the evi- 
dent sympathy and interest he showed in 
what she had to tell ; but she never sus- 
pected that after she left him he did not 
go to his bed again, but sat planning for 
the morrow. 

He knew that every arrangement had 
been made for removing Paul on the next 
day, and that what was to be done must 
be done quickly. The knife with the ini- 
tials “S. K.” was still in his possession. 
Was there a boy with these initials in the 


Paul's Angel. 


35 


town, and could there by any possibility 
have been a mistake ? was he the incendi- 
ary, after all ? And had his conscience — 
for it is seldom a boy’s conscience, even a 
bad boy’s, is all dead — stung him into an 
attempt to save Paul from an undeserved 
punishment ? 

But the judge was not to be left long in 
doubt. Hardly had the daylight begun, 
gray and hot, to wake up the languid 
world, when there was another pull of his 
door-bell, faint and jerky, as if rung from 
a distance. 

On opening the door, the judge saw a 
string attached to the bell, and a note 
with a stone upon it lying on the upper 
step. Opening it, he read : — 

44 You be smart, be’unt ye ? ’Twas me 
that sot fire to your barne, and not Pari 
Duglas. I did it kas you had my dog 
Boxer kilt. He warnt no mor mad nor 
you be, and I swor I’d be evun wid ye. 
And I be. I kant kox Pari to run awa 
wid me to the Injuns, so I’m oph, and you 


136 


Paul' s Angel 


wont niver here nor se me agin. Its me, 
an’ not Pari dnn it, so you let him oph, or 
I’ll kum bac and burn ye out of ouse 
and ome, I will as tru as I me aliv, so look 
ote. 

“ Respek, 

“S. K. 

“ Kith me if ye kan. I stol kan of ile. 
I rung bell. Smart, ante ye ? 

“ S. Iv.” 

“ That’s it,” said the judge, trium- 
phantly, as he spelled out the note. 
“Well, ‘S. K.\ I think I’ve got you at 
last.” 

There was hardly a person in Carlton 
who forgot that morning that poor Paul 
Douglas was to be carried away that day 
to the penitentiary. Mr. Griffin had tried 
his best to shirk the duty of taking him 
there on to some one else ; but no one 
could be found willing to relieve him. 
He had even thought of feigning sickness, 
great stout man as he was, in order to rid 
himself of it. Something about Paul had 


i37 


P (nil's Augc/. 

taken firm liold of his usually unconcerned 
heart, and would not let it go. He felt 
more than half ashamed of himself, but 
could not help it. 

He was harnessing his horse when a 
messenger from Judge Tilton stopped him. 

“You will wait further orders,” ran the 
message ; and nothing more. 

The further orders came soon : “ Go at 
once, arrest Sam Kirby, and bring him to 
my office.” 

The constable lost no time in starting 
on his errand. He went with a wonderful 
feeling of relief, though why he could not 
have told. 

Sam was nowhere to be found. At his 
home everybody was filled with anger and 
dismay. His father had been robbed, the 
boy’s clothes were gone, and under his 
pillow was a note. Sam seemed fond of 
writing : — 

“ Goodbye. I’m off. You’ll niver se 
me agin. Don’t fret, muther. I’ll mak 
a errate man vit, then I’ll kum hum. 

“Sam.” 


138 Paul's Angel. 

So Sam disappeared, and was never seen 
or heard of again. Not all a bad boy, you 
see; for he had his own ideas of honor, 
even if he was among thieves, and he loved 
his mother. 

Paul knew nothing of all this. He only 
knew that at last, at last, that dreadful 
day had come ; that after a few hours he 
should not see his mother or Ruth for five 
disgraced years; and then what would 
they think of him? Would they be will- 
ing to go away with a boy that had a 
felon’s brand upon his name ? How would 
Ruth, a big girl, feel? Would she go? 
Tears, blinding tears, rushed to his eyes; 
and his heart, oh, what a leaden thing it 
was ! Did he now wish that rope back in 
his hand? Wouldn’t he have been glad 
of any chance of escape? He started at 
every sound. It must be the man who 
was to take him away. 

“ Oh, mother ! mother ! Ruth ! Ruth ! ” 
he kept saying aloud, in spite of all his 
efforts to keep up and bear it like a man. 


Paul's Angel. 


139 


At last his door was opened, and there 
stood Judge Tilton, holding out both 
hands toward him, his face lit up with the 
kindest smile. 

“Paul, my poor boy,” he said, and again 
the astonished boy noticed that his voice 
trembled, “ I’m so sorry, and I’m so glad. 
Come with me. I will make amends to 
you in the future if I can. Come, Paul, 
come.” 

Paul shrank away from him, covering 
his face with both his hands. 

“Don’t you understand me, Paul?” he 
said gently. “You are innocent. You 
are free. It was Sam Kirby. He has con- 
fessed it all. Come, Paul, come ! ” 

But Paul stood still, looking past the 
judge with a vacant stare ; and Mrs. Dane 
bustled in. 

“Don’t upset him, judge,” she said, 
giving the judge a not wholly respectful 
nudge with her sharp elbow. “Leave him 
to me.” So the judge, in truth alarmed by 
Paul’s condition, turned and left the room. 


140 Paul's Angel. 

It was tlie wisest thing that could have 
been done ; for, by a little coaxing and a 
little scolding in her own way, Mrs. Dane 
at last brought Paul to understand what 
had taken place. The judge was walking 
impatiently up and down the sitting-room, 
with the gilded window curtains, when 
Paul came in at the door, Mrs. Dane be- 
hind him. 

She was saying to him : “ Arter all, 
Paul, I shall kinder miss you. You’ve 
been the best — the best pris — patient I 
ever had, and you may tell your mother so, 
with Betsy Dane’s love.” 

What a changed boy Paul was ! Judge 
Tilton doubted, had he met him anywhere 
else, if he should have known him. 

Only about a month in prison, and he 
had grown tall and thin and peaked. The 
scars upon his face, many of them, had 
healed ; but in their places were ghastly 
lines of white, almost as disfiguring. His 
lips were dry and bloodless, and the look 
in his eyes was far from that of a sane, 
happy boy. 







Paul's Angel. 141 

To be sure, the judge had no injustice 
to repent of. He had simply followed 
out the leadings of circumstantial evidence, 
and with the verdict of the jury he had 
nothing to do ; but he would have given 
almost anything he possessed just then to 
put Paul back into the place in his life 
from which he had so abruptly taken him. 
But still he said now, cheerfully : — 

“ Come, Paul, my horse (it’s Billy, and 
you have a right to a ride with him) is 
at the door. Jump in with me, and I 
will drive you home to your mother.” 

Paul obeyed almost mechanically ; and, 
as the buggy reached the main street, a 
crowd of men and boys were seen gath- 
ered together. The boys rushed head 
first toward the buggy, tossed their torn 
hats into the air, shouted, “Hurrah for 
Paul Douglas ! ” “ the boy who never told 
a lie ! ” so called out some one. 

“ The boy that won’t lie,” took up the 
ragamuffins. “ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hur- 
rah ! ” 


142 Paul's Angel. 

And the men stepping forward, some 
of them held out brawny hands for Paul 
to take tremblingly, and the mothers 
crowded once more into their doorways, 
wiping the tears from their eyes, now 
openly, with the corner of their aprons. 

And the judge drove Billy at his best 
speed, after the crowd was past, until he 
drew him up at Mrs. Douglas’ door. In 
the door, as if she had never moved from 
it since he left her there, stood his mother, 
with outstretched arms. Paul staggered 
into them ; and she drew him in, once 
more, and shut the door. And Paul’s 
angel, listening at the cottage door, heard 
the sound of a little crutch, and then a 
child’s voice breaking out in the wild ex- 
uberance of her joy into the beautiful 
Bible song : — 

“ Thou hast turned for me my mourn- 
ing into dancing, thou hast put off my 
sackcloth, and girded me with gladness. 

“ To the end that my glory may sing 
praise to thee, and not be silent. 


Paul's Angel. 143 

“ O Lord my God, I will give thanks 
unto thee forever/’ 

And, while the soft summer morning 
was wrapping them in its glory, and the 
birds were singing a gay welcome home, 
and old Tibby the cat was purring softly 
at Paul’s feet, the angel wrote on the 
lintel of the door, — 

“ The angel of the Lord encampeth 
round about them that feareth him, and 
delivereth them.” 


The End. 
















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